PSOH 'Rival'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE. Leon's got a brand-new rival for Count D's attention and Jill's scheming. The dude's hot sh*t and it's not effing fair...but then, what is, in Leon's life, anyway?
1. Chapter 1

PSOH 'RIVAL' #1/10

"Richard!"

The battered metal office door slammed against the plaster, revealing a somnolent detective, head down on his desk.

"Huh?"

Leon opened his eyes to reveal the usual stained green blotter and the brand-new Styrofoam cup of java that abruptly appeared before him. He raised his head, ever so slowly, so that it wouldn't fall off, sliding a hand across the dribble of drool that slipped down his chin.

"His name is Richard but he said I can call him 'Rick'! Oh my god, he is so _hot_!"

His partner's face was flushed a lovely rose and she was nearly panting with excitement. A nice look, Leon thought, but not much to the point at seven o'clock in the fucking morning. He needed more coffee to start up his brain before he could appreciate it. He needed some aspirin and maybe four more hours of sleep, too. He needed to get laid, something fierce. He made an effort, though, and roused himself enough to ask:

"What'ya talking about? Who's this Richard?"

Fumbling, he found the cup and raised it to his lips, sipping it gratefully, closing his bloodshot eyes as the caffeine worked its way down his tanned throat and into his dehydrated system.

Jill jiggled, impatiently, flipping back her hair. She smoothed down her lacy sundress with prettily painted nails, flushing darker with a tinge of quick temper at Leon's disheveled impassiveness.

"What'd'ya mean, 'what do I mean'?" she shot back. "Weren't you supposed to be at the Staff meeting, Leon? He's the new guy; you know, the one from San Fran, who's supposed to be helping us out? Come on, you've actually met him already. Remember, last week?"

Leon blinked slowly. Seven o'clock in the morning was too early for 'remembering', damn it. But it was there, in the way far back of his foggy brain; a feeble little tendril of recognition, waving.

"Oh…yeah, yeah, now that you mention it, sure," he replied, though he was nowhere near that confident he really did recall. But anything to make his partner stop with the loud voice. "So…his name's Richard? Does he have a last name?"

The look of pretty excitement returned in full force. His partner was very definitely charmed, judging by the girly way she was twirling a lock of hair and digging a polished toe into the gross tan industrial carpet.

"Despard! _French_, Leon! He's half-French! He's blond and he's got the most gorgeous blue eyes and he's _so_ sweet, Leon! He's got manners, too! He-he opened the door for me, Leon! The door!"

Jill was definitely on a roll about this new guy, even a bleary Leon could see that. He sipped his Dunkin' Donuts and eyed her carefully, not sure which way she'd jump. Whatever way it was, he wasn't really up to ducking and rolling. Not right now and maybe never, with the way his head felt, all done up in cottonwool.

"O…kay. Maybe you ought'a sit down or something, Jill. You're a little weird right now."

Wrong way. His partner's spine went ramrod straight and she stamped her kitten heel with a little huff of impatience. Leon could almost see the steam rising from her ears as she fully registered his remark.

"What? Weird?" she shrieked. "What's weird about appreciating a hot guy, Leon? In case you haven't noticed, there are no hot guys in Homicide!"

"Now that's not true, Jill – you've got me, don't'cha?"

Wrong way, again, and no U-turns. Ever one to make matters worse, Leon couldn't not stand up and be counted in the ranks of 'hot guys in Homicide'. Plenty of people had told him he was good-looking, after all.

"Pffft! Like _you_ count, Leon!" Jill scoffed. She leaned back against the wall and folded her hands over her generous breasts. "Just look at you – I bet you didn't even take a shower this morning! And those are yesterday's clothes you're wearing! You have no sense of style, Leon – not like _Richard_," she pointed out bitchily, a reverent tone in her voice when she purred this new guy's name.

Leon concluded this Richard had to be hot shit. Not that he cared.

"I bet you don't even _know _what a suit is, unless it's that grey pinstripe unit you bought for Alejandro's wedding," Jill was still bitching. "How long ago was that now? Five years?"

That jerked Leon's chain right tight. He sat up, clutching his half-empty cup, and glared at the female half of his working life.

"Hey! It's older than that! I bought it for Academy graduation, alright? Paid a lot of money for it, too! Nothing wrong with that suit, Jill; it's got plenty of years in it! The guy said it would last forever—"

"That's not the point, doofus!" Jill pointed a finger at him for emphasis. "The point is that it's older than goddamned dirt! You look like some freak from the 'seventies, Leon!"

"I do not!" Leon would've stood up to this insult if his head didn't still hurt. His stomach was wonky, too. Rough night, last night.

"Huh! Well, the _point_ is, Leon, you've finally got some competition! I think I'll take Rick down to Count D's Shop and introduce him right now!"

"You will not!" Leon roared, sloshing his coffee. He stood right up, hardly wobbling, and shouted at Jill. "He's _my_ witness, damn it! You'd better leave him alone!"

"So? You own him? I don't think so, Orcot," Jill smirked, one hand on the doorknob. She smiled and it was purely evil. "Try and stop me, then, asshole. I'm sure D will enjoy meeting a handsome, fashionable, _intelligent _detective – for once!"

TBC….


	2. Chapter 2

PSOH RIVAL #2

"In short, I think we must return to our basic procedures and examine the hobo's testimony—if we are able to obtain it, at this late date. The old man was known to on the scene and he was, most definitely, a material witness, even if he was also incoherent with drink. I don't believe the department should allow him to simply him slip though our fingers—not now, with another corpse turning up this morning. His account could be crucial to us-do you not agree?"

Richard Despard laid his finely molded but still very manly chin on his clasped and well-kept hands as a murmur of approbation rose up in the Staff Room. He was very much the king of the room, claiming everyone's attention. Only Leon made no response, his brow crinkled in cogitation, clearly occupied elsewhere. He continued staring blindly at a stained crack in the ceiling, till Jill jabbed him in the ribs, impatient.

"Don't _you _agree, Leon? Rick's right on the money with that idea. We overlooked the old guy, you know. Or at least, Third Shift did."

She raised a hand, eager to claim the visiting detective's attention in the quiet clamor of agreeable enthusiasm that arose in the packed Staff room.

"Well, that's it, folks," the Chief announced, rising and gathering up his stacks of files. "You heard Mr. Despard here—we'll need to get back on tracking down our witness. Any objections? No? Alright—dismissed!"

With a rising excitement, half the staff room gravitated toward their visiting officer, a Monsieur Despard, on loan from the Interpol.

He was, without a doubt, everybody's brand-new fair-haired boy. Tall and commanding, with hair the color of wild honey and a movie-star handsome face, he was liked and admired by both male and female staff. The fact that he oozed charm like a jelly donut oozes sweet-tasting goo didn't hurt. The fact that he had the slightest hint of an accent, a gorgeous body, stunning blue eyes and he dressed like a latter-day James Bond wasn't a problem, either.

Even Leon thought the Interpol guy was okay – his science was decent; his way of speaking was clear; and the handmade tailored suits he wore so well didn't seem to make him too, too pretentious – when he thought about Despard at all, which was practically never. The visiting officer had been assigned to their precinct for a month now and for all his good looks and charm, he'd never once acted like the total asshole Leon had figured he'd be. And Jill…well, Jill flat out _adored_ him, fawning all over '_Riiiichaaard_' whenever she got a chance.

Right now, she was waving her arm with great enthusiasm, catching Despard's eye in the sea of people who surrounded him now that the usual morning meeting had wrapped up.

"Yoo-hoo! We'll track him down for you, Riiichaaaard! Count on us!"

"What?"

Leon's head whipped around at that, his attention finally claimed.

"Hey! Wait! What're you _saying, _Jill_?_ I didn't! We can't! _Shhhh_!" he hissed. He made frantic shushing motions at his determined partner but they had absolutely no effect. She glared at him and poked him in the ribs a little harder, hissing right back.

"Shut up, Leon! It's not like _you've_ brought anything useful to the table! Richard's right! We need to track down that old drunk! If he was there, then he might have seen something – and we can't let any lead go to waste!"

"Jill! We have our own shit to do! We can't just be chasing down random hobos for no good reason—the Chief'll have fucking kittens!"

"_I_ say we _do_ need to do this, Leon! And the Chief's fine with it—just look at him! He's right over there with the rest of them, isn't he? And hasn't Rick already helped us out with our last case, when we needed a translator? Why can't _we _give him a hand, huh? When he needs it?"

Jill opened her eyes wide, hopefully, and waited for her partner to give in. She wouldn't lower herself to bat her lashes or use any of the tricks women had in their arsenal for coaxing reluctant males to cooperate, but she did have one big gun: Guilt. With a capital 'G'.

"…Leon?"

_How much do you owe me now, Leon_? _Literally and metaphorically?_ her gaze asked, and Leon flinched from it and looked away instantly, guilty as hell.

He tipped his head back against the wall his chair was stuffed up against, tousling his loosely gathered ponytail with a restless hand and then crushing it into the denim collar of his jacket. He thumped his knee with a loose fist, contemplating the rip in his jeans that showed skin, all the while stealing little glances at Jill's expectant face and then making sure he wasn't catching her eye or anything. He hummed aimlessly, rocking back on the tilted legs of his metal chair, too, in an annoying little tattoo, but Jill still watched him, silent, her expression hopeful.

"Alright, alright! Fine," he replied testily, at last, "but if it gets in the way of the other shit we've got going, then fucking forget it. I don't have time for extra crap. We're already overloaded, Jill, and you know it."

Jill smiled sweetly in her victory, revealing lovely white teeth. She leaned forward and patted Leon's knee consolingly.

"Come on, Leon. It'll be fine; we'll manage. And maybe you can ask the Count about it, too. There were those gashes all over the other bum's body. They looked a little…weird. Maybe a wild animal made them."

"Yeah…maybe."

Leon frowned, thinking back to the graphic images of the old man who'd been discovered under one of L.A.'s many overpasses: bloody beyond belief, his skin sliced to ribbons and his baggy, flea-infested clothes shredded to confetti around him. It had been gruesome, yeah, but it hadn't looked like anything an animal might've done.

"I don't know about that. They didn't feel right, somehow, those lacerations. Too clean. Besides, I don't wanna bother the Count with this, Jill, not if I don't have to. You know how he gets—"

"I'll help, Miss Jill, Detective Orcot," a deep, pleasant voice chimed in. Leon looked up – and up – to see Richard Despard smiling genially at the two of them. "It would be… my very great pleasure," he drawled, bowing politely to Jill and sending a companionable wink in Leon's direction, guy to guy. He even stuck a casual hand on the back of Leon's beat up metal folding chair, settling it carefully back on the tile, from his position of lounging against the ugly tan-painted wall with an innate and casual grace.

"Really?"

Jill caught her breath, audibly, her eyes brightening with delight. Despard grinned boyishly at her brilliant smile, a few strands of his silky dark blonde mane falling over one sparkling azure eye rakishly. He even managed to look shy, a pretty fine accomplishment for a man of thirty-odd, Leon decided.

"Since I've dragged you both, how'd'you say, 'by hook and by crook' into this, have I not…Leon?" he asked, his sexy voice hitting just the right note of manly self-deprecation. He glinted his baby blues down even more charmingly at Leon's skeptical face, managing somehow to appear both humble and confident simultaneously. "I may call you that? Of course I should be the first one to volunteer my services, yes? Too, I realize you're both busy with your own caseload. It is the very least I can do, Leon, Miss Jill—to help the department."

"Oh, Richard! How very sweet of you!" she squealed. "You're the best! Isn't he just the best, Leon?"

"Well…" Leon hedged. "Um."

Jill jumped up and practically assaulted Despard with a bearhug. When he thrust his broad, long-fingered hands out to fend her off, chuckling, she settled for grabbing the visiting detective's hands instead, pumping them vigorously, and not missing the chance to twine her pretty fingers around his. A faint flush tinged Despard's tanned face at the intimacy and he glanced down at his expensive, handmade shoes, clearly embarrassed by all the attention. Leon snorted and hid his grin behind one hand, feeling kinda sorry for the guy—when Jill took an interest in somebody, she made no bones about letting them know—and decided on the spur-of-the-moment that maybe accepting a little help with the drudge work of detecting might be okay for once. If Despard did his part, then maybe they'd be able to make some time.

"Yeah, okay," he allowed. "I guess. Just don't get in the way of our other files, alright? I've got better things to do than babysit your ass. But-whatever. Thanks."

'Course, it was all Despard's fault he'd been dragged into this, but Leon figured he might as well be half-way decent about it. Murderer still had to be caught; the body in the morgue still needed a reason for being there. Chief said it had to happen and Jill looked kinda really happy, right now. Besides, help was help, no matter where it came from. Just look at the Count, and how often _he_ came to their rescue!

"Thank you."

The detective was pinned suddenly by eyes the exact colour of the French Mediterranean; a cerulean blue that spoke of sunny skies, beautiful beaches and people who wore berets for the heck of it, drank wine all the time, strolled on the sand nude as jaybirds and weren't at all embarrassed by any of it. Very um…'foreign', yeah. Just like Count D.

The startling eyes blinked at him, slowly. Leon was once again reminded of a young lion, surveying his territory. He grinned wryly, imagining the Count's response to that whimsical thought.

"Thank you, Leon," Despard said again. "Very much. I appreciate the opportunity you're giving me. I shall not waste it, believe me."

"Uh, yeah," Leon shrugged, mind already skittering elsewhere, more than ready to move on. "Sure. Come on, Jill. Let's get started. See you 'round, dude."


	3. Chapter 3

PSOH RIVAL #3

Leon wasn't present when Richard Despard first met Count D.

Jill had taken her favorite new Homicide detective for a tour of their regular beat, not forgetting for a moment to stop in at the local bakery and round up a few treats for the Count. Leon was off having emergency oral surgery, having broken a tooth in the midst of subduing a perp. Jill had promised to check in with the Count on his behalf, but…well, she didn't bother to mention her new pal Richard was tagging along, being a smart cop, and a good friend, too, as she didn't want poor Leon to blow a gasket when he was already in considerable pain.

Of course, whether his presence would've made any difference to the first meeting between weird Chinese Pet Shop owner and impeccably suave imported French detective is debatable, at best. But, still, Leon was present, in spirit if not body.

"Miss Jill!"

The Count, elegant in silver and sky blue, rose politely as they entered and extended a long pale hand, cordially clasping one of hers. His odd eyes traveled speculatively to the startlingly handsome man who stood behind her and his habitual smile became somehow a shade more intense.

Jill grinned her undeniable appreciation of _that._

"And who is this with you, my dear?" he cooed, tilting his sleek head inquisitively, so that the perfect fall of midnight silk swept his sharp chin. His eyes widened at the Adonis who occupied his Parlour and Jill quickly faked a cough and raised a hand to hide her smile. "A friend? You must both stay for tea," he announced. "I insist."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance…" Richard's deep voice replied, "_Comte_? Mademoiselle has mentioned you carry an old and most honourable title, sir."

The Count's odd-eyed gaze immediately sharpened, his pupils contracting, and Despard found himself drawing a quick breath. The Chinese gentleman's rather too-pretty features suddenly seemed a bit…feral. But perhaps that was merely the lighting in the Parlour. Those old glass shades and fringed lamps gave off an uncertain light at the best of times.

"This is Monsieur Richard Despard, Count D," Jill rushed in instantly, tugging her companion eagerly father into the confines of the Pet Shop's public area. She was all smiles and excitement as she proceeded to introduce them properly, but sadly, her positivity didn't seem to be catching, as the men in question remained rather impassive of face and stiff of posture.

"He's with us for a few months, Count D, on loan over from Interpol," Jill hurried on to explain, feeling somehow uneasy. "Helping out the Homicide department right now, as a matter of fact, since the precinct's caseload has been increasing for some reason. We've also seen a rise in the trade of illegal substances," Jill tacked on, shrugging philosophically. "Somehow, don't know why, but that always seems to lead to more murders. In any case, we're a little swamped right now," she added, smiling brightly, "so we're very glad to have him."

"I see," the Count replied gravely, nodding. "It is excellent, then, that you have been provided aid."

He'd not, Jill noticed, taken his eyes from the handsome face of Richard Despard once since he first caught sight of him, nor had he ever appeared to have actually blinked, either. Nor, interestingly enough, had Richard looked anywhere other than the Count—not once.

Well, Jill decided, she was happy enough to introduce to her two favorite hot guys to one another and then watch the resultant fireworks! If only that idiot Leon were here to see the fun! He'd lose it! No doubt, he'd be sneering, stomping and making rude comments left and right, especially if he were witness to the rather predatory way the Count was examining their guest.

_Uh-oh_! Jill caught herself. This could potentially lead to some real trouble. Leon was a little…strange, admittedly, when it came to the Count. Maybe she should've waited, but—hell, where was the harm?

She hurried to make the Count's position in the precinct clear, for Richard's benefit, just in case.

"Richard, Count D here always gives us expert advice on animal behavior. Leon absolutely relies on him, one hundred percent – and maybe, if you ask nicely, he might be willing to help with our latest case? The hobo? Forensics did say those were wounds looked to be made by something with very large claws."

"Oh, well…" Richard's good-looking face seemed to take on a rather doubtful cast at that suggestion—but he also seemed fascinated, as he was still staring blatantly at the Count. "If you think he might be able to help, Miss Jill, then…" Richard shrugged in a delightfully charming Gallic manner.

And the Count was still staring at Richard. Practically licking his lips, too.

_Oh, la, la!_ Jill thought to herself, gleefully.

"Of course, Miss Jill, M'sieur Despard. If you'll give the particulars, I shall do my small best," D smiled sweetly, stepping into the breach, and waved them both to the couch. "But, please," he bowed slightly, "be seated. The tea awaits you pleasure."

Richard evidently decided it was time to do something a little more active than merely gaze at the Count, narrow-eyed and clearly fascinated. He smiled, a charming curl of lips that perfectly revealed his gleaming white teeth and the brilliant sparkle in his clear blue eyes, and addressed him for the second time.

Jill thrilled to the sound of Richard's fruity drawl.

"How pleasant to hear that Detective Orcot relies upon you, Comte. Reassuring that such a fine detective trusts you to that degree. You must have gained your exalted reputation in foreign lands?" Richard arched up an dark blond eyebrow in question, a move that was immediately matched and trumped by one of the Count's sable black ones.

The tension in the room—and Jill was beginning to doubt it was sexual—ratcheted up by ten more degrees.

"Ah! You question the title, M'sieur?" The Count was all smiles—or just teeth, really. "I assure you it is purely honorary, Detective, but then again, I am no charlatan, dear sir. The 'Count' is self-styled, if you're truly curious, but it is my grandfather who actually claims it, as he is the real owner of this Pet Shop. Sadly, he is abroad, travelling the world for new acquisitions, and somehow it seems to have become the duty of the Shop manager to be referred to in that manner by our clients," D smirked delightfully. "I'm sure I don't know why."

"But, of course, Comte," Despard replied genially, nodding. "As you say. Not real nobility, then."

Jill caught her breath in a muffled gasp. Now that was rather petty! Who knew Richard had kitty claws and wasn't afraid to use them—and _why_? Where was the need?

"Indeed. Now, then, tea, Monsieur Despard? It is a blend of Earl Grey and Jasmine Ooolong—my own, of course, but I am fond of it. Quite, quite refreshing."

"Thank you, _Comte_. In any case, je suis très heureux de vous rencontrer, as I have certainly failed to mention. The pleasure of visiting you in your lovely Shop is all mine. And, as Miss Jill has mentioned, we are surely in need of your kind assistance, as an expert."

"Excellent," Count D nodded sharply. He turned to Jill, wearing a much softer smile. "Then, before we get started, may I offer some of these delightful nonnettes, Miss Jill?"

The two police officers made themselves comfortable, claiming separate cushions on D's overstuffed couch, juggling with care the plates and cups and tiny silver teaspoons the Count handed them.

"Merci, s'il vous plait." Despard's innate courtesy was palpable, despite his previous glint of teeth. Perhaps it had only been an aberration. Jill sighed happily, watching them both with a certain fondness. She'd just give her eyeteeth to have Leon here, in the mix. That would've been fun, damn it!

D's eyes darkened infinitesimally as he narrowed them against his visitor's charming smile and elegant half-bow, through the offering of cup-and-saucer and its acceptance. He concentrated his full attention then on Jill, tempting her with a quite a different plate of mouth-watering bakery items: petit beurre and petit moelleux, savane fruit and coqueline.

"But, my dear Miss Jill, where is your usual partner?" Count D wished to know, after a few minutes od polite sipping and nibbling. "Has the good Detective been assigned to some other homicide case today?"

"Oh, no!" Jill exclaimed, well aware of Richard's eyes fixed on the Count's mobile face. Perhaps Richard was attracted and the thought of Leon's interest in Count D caused him instant jealousy? Wouldn't _that_ be awesome to witness? "He's at the dentist's; in fact, I think it's the woman _you_ referred him to, Count. He's having a tooth repaired because it was broken in the line of duty. Stupid robber didn't want to cooperate, silly boy." She humped her shoulders, grinning. "And you know Leon, Count. It's like waving a red flag."

"Hmm," the Count actually grinned boyishly at that piece of information. "I do hope he's accepted the Novacaine she offers to those innocents who are not…familiar…with her rather extreme dental techniques. He'll find it quite difficult without it!"

Richard laughed politely and Jill giggled at that sally, in Richard's case with some uncertainty. The visiting detective then glanced about in open curiosity at the faded, antique comfort of the Parlor. There was only a cat or two in residence at the moment, a few exotic birds in gilt cages that sported open doors and lastly, reclining at the far end of the couch, an unusual animal that appeared to be some very odd mix of goat and dog. He blinked at it and then turned back to the Count, once again with a question written in the cock of his elegant dark blonde eyebrow.

"This _is_ a pet shop, then? Do you keep the remainder of your animals in some other facility?"

The Count tittered, a hand raised like a fan over the lines of his perfect, scarlet mouth.

"Absolutely it _is_, M'sieur, I assure you. However, it is currently the time of rest. Many of my dear Pets take their ease in the late afternoons; t'is the way they cope with the worst heat and fatigue of the day."

"Ah," Richard nodded knowingly. "Of course. That is so, is it not? I had forgotten that trait the animal's share, from when I owned a pet, as a child. Merci, Comte. Forgive my…unnatural curiosity, if you please."

D's gaze sharpened even more, if that were even possible. Richard met it with equanimity, all his attention fixed on those odd eyes.

The goat-dog thing raised its shaggy head, all at once alert.

"Oh, T-chan—I didn't see you there, buddy!" She smiled at the Toutetsu and wiggled her fingers in a little wave, turning back to Richard, still grinning. "Now you see why we rely on the Count so much, Richard," she explained, hoping to jolly then both along into a better mood. For some reason, this meeting wasn't near as much fun as she'd thought it would be, going into it. Thank the Lord Leon _wasn't_ present! "He's a wealth of knowledge about all animals, the Count is. Why, we've not had a case yet involving them where he hasn't been able to help. 'Course it's usually Leon doing the asking, so I guess that doesn't hurt, either, right, Count? _He's_ your favourite, isn't he? Out of all of us?"

The Count lowered his eyelids demurely, finally breaking his ongoing and unrelenting the visual connection to the visiting French detective. He drew in a deep breath and seemed to settle himself more comfortably in his chair, fragile tea cup in one hand, a musing forefinger tapping his pointy chin in a staccato measure.

Jill echoed the soft sigh, unknowingly, feeling relieved for some reason. And Richard shifted his inquiring gaze to the Toutetsu, eyes widening appreciatively as he took in its very unusual features.

One could almost see his thoughts in a bubble above his fair head: here, at last, was a creature worthy of study. Perhaps this Count fellow was the genuine article, after all.

"Why, thank you, Miss Jill," Count D replied kindly, the forefinger slowing in speed as he sent her another charming smile, "but that is hardly more than common sense on my part, providing aid to the authorities. Now, you seek specific aid on a case of murder, do you not? Will you allow me the details?"


	4. Chapter 4

RIVAL #4

"Here, your coffee, Leon. Not to worry-it's that horrible stuff you like so much."

Richard Despard sprawled in the chair Jill usually occupied, eyeing his erstwhile and very temporary partner. Detective Orcot was most definitely _not _hungover today, but he certainly seemed to be in a fair amount of pain.

"Thanks. You didn't haf'ta, but thanks all the same." Leon grimaced, in a passable attempt at a friendly man-to-man grin. Unwary, he slurped at it, and then his eyes widened in slow motion above his pursed lips, somewhat comically.

His companion shook his bright head, waving a careless hand.

"It is no matter, Leon—my pleasure, in fact."

The detective yelped, clapping a fast hand to his bruised lip and jowl. "Ouch! God-_fucking_-damn it! That hurts!" he howled, setting the offending coffee cup down so fast he nearly knocked it over.

"Leon!" His temporary partner was already half out his seat and most the way 'round the desk between them by the time Leon managed to gulp down his cooling mouthful, eyes clenched tight at the residual burn. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Leon gurgled a half-moment later, speaking gingerly around his sore tongue. "Not _your _fault I was an idiot, pal." He flapped a hand at the French detective's concerned frown and sat back, regarding his rejected cup balefully.

Richard, apparently encouraged, grinned in return with all the charm of professional playboy, effortlessly plopping his ass on Leon's untidy blotter.

It struck Leon suddenly that their Interpol loaner was actually pretty good-looking, for a guy.

"How is your jaw, _mon cher_, in general?" The 'loaner' stuck a tanned hand out suddenly—gracefully-lightly touching Leon's stubble, the spatulate tips of his fingers resting feather-light on the bruised thin skin over Leon's jawbone for just a fraction of a second too long to be casual.

Leon shrugged. "Well enough, I guess. Still can't feel my tongue—'cept when I goddamn burn it off by accident, damn it"

"Still, that's a nasty bruise you have there. We should put something on it. Have you a first aid kit, Leon?"

Despard's smooth voice was very soft, almost tender, and a vague alarm bell went pinging softly in the very back of Leon's mind when the hand was not immediately withdrawn.

"I'll be most happy to…assist you. To apply a salve, of course."

Despard smiled all the more brightly, his teeth a million watts strong.

Alright—yeah, Leon concluded to himself. _Very_ good-looking. No wonder Jill was so moony and stupid these days. Women!

He pulled back automatically, a little twitchy at the prolonged contact. He didn't really get guys who could touch other guys on the face just like that, but this Rick's careful handling actually didn't bother him all that much, either – it was just Despard being a little too 'foreign' for his taste, all touchy-feely. The guy just _did _that, all the time. It was as if Mr. Perfect Interpol Dude had no concept of 'personal space' at all. At least not the American version of it.

_Very _foreign of him, actually, Leon decided, as the fingertips did a little tap-dance over his bruises, stroking them. He closed his eyes, as it didn't feel too bad at all—not after all that rough treatment he'd received at the hands of D's dentist-dominatrix.

Speaking of the Count, this visiting foreigner was kinda' like him about space and how much there should be between each individual person, only exactly the opposite. The Count's idea of 'personal space' was more like a 360 degree barbed-wire offset radius of 'Don't dare touch me, you cretin—unless I give _express_ permission!'

Except in Chris's case, of course. That was different. The Count had no problem with returning Chris's random little boy hugs or with touching him as a caregiver does…which was a good thing, really. D, Leon decided, must think of his little brother as a baby animal and—

"Leon?" Despard was saying his name patiently and Leon was left with the impression he'd been doing that for a while now and Leon just hadn't noticed. "The salve? Do you have some?" The man's fingers were finally gone from Leon's recuperating jawbone but he was leaning over Leon like a vulture over roadkill, just inches away.

"Nah. It's fine, thanks, " Leon shrugged, rubbing his cheek without thinking, his mind on other subjects entirely, even as he jiggled the legs of his office chair a millimeter or two-or ten!-in the 'away' direction. "I've got painkillers if I need 'em – washed three of them down with whiskey, just like that bitch said I should."

"I see," Despard wrinkled his brow in obvious skepticism over Leon's method of dealing with pain. He sniffed, easing his but back on Leon's blotter, as if he were planning on making it his permanent station. "Well, don't overdo it, my friend. You should take better care of yourself."

"Don't worry about it, pal. This sort of shit comes with the job. No biggie, you know? You get used to it, real quick."

"Ah," Despard vouchsafed, but he didn't make a move to return to Jill's seat, either. "I see. I am sorry for it, though—_most _sincerely. I do not like to see you in pain, Leon."

Leon ignored him, grabbing at his coffee cup again and took another sip, very carefully this time but wincing all the same when the heat engulfed his tender new crown. Richard furrowed his fair brow right along with him, and seemed as though he was about to say something sympathetic or perhaps even feel for himself a second time the slight swelling and purple bruising that disfigured the lower half of Leon's stubbly face, but he was fortunately forestalled by Jill's abrupt entry into the little cubbyhole she and her regular partner shared.

"Leon! Richard!" she burst out, her stance dramatic, the door slamming into the dented wall. "We've got the other homeless guy! They're holding him for questioning down at Seventh, in the tank. Let's get a move on, you two!"

Leon automatically grabbed his cup and his denim jacket on his way out the door, a little tippy still from the marvelous drugs D's dentist had gassed him up with the day before, not to mention the home dose he'd downed earlier. An eagle-eyed Despard caught his shoulder, steadying him, but then dropped his grip like a double-baked potato the moment he felt their female cohort's suddenly speculative gaze move past Leon's eager face to rest on his own.

"Oops-si-daisy, _mon homme_!" he chuckled, his tone casual to the extreme. "Careful there, eh? You don't want to trip and smack your pretty face on the doorframe. That would be a pity, would it?"

"Oh! Er—thanks," Leon answered laconically, shrugging on his jacket and juggling his cup, clearly not paying attention-again. "'Preciate it, Rick. Let's go, guys, alright? Time's a'wasting."

"Uh huh," Jill grunted, taking in the situation perfectly and stepping out of the door simultaneously. She said no more, only swung her speaking gaze back in Despard's direction, fixing him with piercing stare and cocking up an inquisitive eyebrow. The oblivious Leon continued on his way out the door, a steam engine with only one track laid on before him and no switchbacks for miles upon miles.

"How long?" Jill wanted to know, her quite tone clipped and professional suddenly—not at all like the honeyed voice she'd been using on Monsieur Detective Despard from the moment she'd met him.

Richard blinked at her slowly, clearly surprised to be caught out, and then raised his broad shoulders in a most Gallic fashion, apparently not too upset to be discovered, either – at least, not by Miss Jill, his confrere-in-arms, so to speak. He grinned at her serious mien-a deliciously charming, feline grin-and nodded acknowledgement at her undeniable prescience, not bothering to protest.

"Since I arrived, some weeks ago, now. He's rather delightfully slow, is he not? Not a clue, that one."

"He's taken," Jill shot back shortly and abruptly turned back toward the half-closed door. Leon was grumbling _sotto voce_ just beyond it about them making him wait. "_Very _taken, Richard. I'd be careful, if I were you."

"I know," Richard nodded, his voice rueful. "Your 'dear Count D' of the Pet Shop has made that quite evident."


	5. Chapter 5

PSOH RIVAL #5

A week later, Detective Despard was reminded. The hobo who'd been retained, questioned and released for lack of charges was found murdered brutally, and they'd picked up another homicide case, the three of them. Once again he and Miss Jill were the Comte's guests and once again Leon Orcot was absent from these historic _ententes cordial. _

Or not. He and the Comte hadn't exactly come to blows but Despard may have wondered about the likelihood, Jill figured, given that the Comte's spine was as stiff as a poker, his too-scarlet lips thinned with…annoyance at their intrusion, perhaps?

Or was it disappointment that Detective Orcot had not bothered to show up and add his peculiar brand of clamour to this official Police Precinct plea for assistance?

"This _is _a pet shop, correct?" the Interpol Wonder Boy asked once again, eying the parlour dubiously. The Pets had been notably absent this visit—just as the last time he graced the Parlour with his shining boyish-yet-suave good looks.

"Ah! You continue to doubt this, M'sieur?" Count D did the state of irony very well, he did, Jill concluded. A past master. Still…it _was _strange that all the Pets were tucked away at the moment, apparently going about their business. Usually they were all over the Parlour—and D, and Jill, as well, shedding. "But simply come to my back room," Count D went on, drolly, "and I shall demonstrate that it _is_, indeed—and a very well-stocked one. I have all manner of rare creatures here," the Count smiled – or rather, allowed Despard a glimpse of his own eyeteeth.

Jill nodded eagerly. She herself was very fond of the raccoon known as 'Pon-chan'.

"Large ones, small ones, wild ones, even a few impossibly difficult-to-find species, dear sir. I'm sure you'll find one that would keep you warm at night or perhaps provide you some companionship during your so regrettably short stay on these shores…if you are lonely, of course. A Pet is a marvelous thing, I find, when one is…at a loss. So…comforting; so…_available_."

The teapot was returned to the table without even a clink or a drop spilt; Count D's expression as bland as a stray puddle of heavy cream. Richard's expression of dubiously polite inquiry was erased just as carefully, replaced by an imperturbable mask that would do the Chief proud in the Interrogation Room, and the company smile he'd been wearing seemed to magnify a hundred fold in its intensity, the only sign that the Count had angered him.

Tea was sipped; pastries consumed. Jill kept her mouth shut, for fear of shattering the frigidly decorous silence, and wished desperately for her partner's brash presence—Leon would barge around and bag things and shout things and these two overly-handsome men would never have the opportunity to come so close to daggers drawn!

Jill's cell shrilled in the awkward little silence that continued on, twanging ever more taut. Blessing it fervently—silently—she flipped it open and when it was the Chief's growly voice barking, she abandoned her seat on the couch and went off to a far corner of the Parlor, talking softly and furiously whenever there was an opportunity between spates of the Chief's shouted garble.

Detective Despard and Count D exchanged not a single word, remaining _en garde_ even as they swallowed and nibbled.

A moment later, she'd returned to them, clicking her phone shut with a snap and frowning angrily.

"I have to go, Count D, Richard. We're so shorthanded down there, they need me in a motorcade, of all things! Can you even imagine?" she exclaimed, gathering her purse and one last _madeleine_ for the road. "I'm so sorry, Count, but could Richard brief you on this latest one? The Chief wants me at the station right now!"

"But of course, Miss Jill," the Count answered with a fond smile. She, at least, was not deep in hot water, Jill thought cheerfully—though she couldn't vouch for Leon, whose notable absence was looming yet like a storm cloud over D's Parlour. "And take these, too." The smiling Count handed her a care package quickly made up in one of his embroidered linen napkins. Richard Despard—her lovely ex-crush 'Riiichaard!'—nodded politely after her as she rushed out the door, leaving the brass prayer bells jangling madly in her wake.

"And now it is just we two, Monsieur Detective," Comte D's oh-so-polite tones broke the silence. "I believe you have something to ask of me?"

Richard started, shaken out of some unknown reverie, and visibly gathered his thoughts.

The Comte had been so, _so_ – well, subtly _angry _all this while; Richard wasn't at all certain if he should actually request assistance. Would it not be better to leave that up to the officers the Comte knew well—and would be willing to help? But Jill and Leon expected Richard to be of practical use to them, and especially Leon, who'd made it a point to brief Richard on exactly what questions he should ask of the Comte.

With a despondent sigh over his position as unwanted errand boy, the Interpol officer explained briefly the claw marks that had clearly caused the street person's gruesome death, spreading an array of Polaroid photographs on the tea table for the Count to examine.

"Hmm, yes," the Count nodded, entirely serious now, his very off gaze narrowed in thought. "I see that your experts in Forensics believe this marks may be the work of large feline—perhaps a cougar? However, if one looks closely, the serrations are far too thin and fine laid for that. There are very few animals which are so precise in their grip—and fewer yet that walk away from a kill leaving their prey entirely untouched."

"Ah," Richard nodded. There was that aspect, which had been niggling at the back of his mind for hours now. That had been very puzzling, indeed.

"I agree, Monsieur," the Comte nodded his seal-sleek head, "it _is _a conundrum. Would you care if I visited the Morgue and perhaps examined the actual body of the victim? Sometimes these things are rather subtle."

A dark eyebrow went up in question; "Merci," Richard nodded reluctantly, having no real and good reason to keep the Comte out of the way and thus out from directly under the charming Detective Orcot's tanned nose, and thus they made arrangements for the Count to visit the morgue the very next day.

"I cannot come today, I fear," the Comte was all smiles now. "I'm expecting another visitor this afternoon." Richard took the hint and finished off his second cup of tea with alacrity, gathering himself to depart—and happy to do so. This Comte was by no means as pleasant as Mss Jill made him out to be!

"I'll shall tell him, if you like, that we've made this plan." Count D rose, ready to show Despard to the Pet Shop's door. "Yes?"

"Him?" A blonde eyebrow cocked, as Despard struggled to make the connection.

"Detective Leon Orcot, of course, M'sieur," the Comte purred. "He'll be here momentarily – nothing like a cup of tea with an old friend for whatever troubles may ail one. Tea _is_ the great panacea, is it not?"

The Count's unusual eyes were sparkling; he had a curve of anticipation on his painted scarlet lips.

Despard stopped, rocking on his heels, and utterly despising that look of triumph. He whipped his head around to peer at the Count more closely, the suspicion he'd been harboring in the darkest corners of his heart bursting into full bloom.

"You know him that well?" he demanded abruptly. "Leon?"

"_V'raiment_, m'sieur. Very well. _Intimately_."

"I…see. How well is that, Comte? Well enough to have had him in your bed?" The detective's face flushed with barely tamped-down annoyance – he'd been horribly afraid of something like this. Leon was far too sweet a morsel to go unclaimed—even if there was some doubt as to who claimed him.

"_Mmm_." The Count's satisfied smile was a veritable work of art, silently encouraging Richard's ever-increasing feeling of dread. With a swish of his silks, the Comte stepped forward and reached out a terribly casual hand, tapping Despard just above the heart with his scarlet-tipped fingernails.

"What do _you_ think, Monsieur Detective? Have you a clue? Further, if you were in_ my_ footwear, would you have left him untouched?"

"No!" Richard burst out and then stumbled inelegantly backward, avoiding the Count's unsheathed claws—er, fingernails. How very affected that was! No _real _man should be prancing about like this, preening over his acquisition of another! "I meant to say – of course not, naturally!"

Richard smiled slowly, allowing his all-too-natural ire some elbowroom. The so-lovely Leon hadn't said a word nor ever indicated by any sign or action that he and this charlatan of a Comte were an item, had he?

He had _not_!

"But," Richard stated loudly, firming his cleft chin and squaring his broad shoulders under the impeccable suiting he wore, "But, _I_ would treat him a sight better than you do, Comte, allowing him suffer needless pain with not the slightest care in the world for him! Weren't _you _the one who sent him to that merciless Chinese woman? That so called '_dentiste_'? Miss Jill has told me all about her; she is quite the student of de Sade, Comte! How _could _you?"

He huffed, which contrarily resulted in the Comte only smiling at his flushed cheeks all the more widely.

"I beg to differ, my dear visiting Detective," the Comte drawled, not a hair out of place on his too-perfect head. "So kind of you to be concerned over what does not concern you, but I never allow _my _Detective to suffer-–he has always the option always of seeking comfort here, in my Shop. And, to be quite brutally honest, Monsieur Despard, I find I take very great pleasure in those moments – and he is well taken care of, if you understand me, yes?" The black brows were fleet arrows of sardonic punctuation, and Richard winced at their rise. "Oh, do please believe me, Detective—you have nothing to worry about _there_…and no reason to, either. None at all."

"But—well! You!"

Richard glared furiously at the Count, his mask of friendly imperturbability decidedly askew. He knew _nothing _of exactly what Leon and the Comte had gotten up to before he'd arrived—he knew nothing now, either. Leon Orcot was the most infuriatingly close-mouthed gentleman Richard had ever come across—all oblivious, it seemed, and yet his interest clearly piqued by this horribly smug Chinese popinjay, all the same. Who knew that to think? And there were no real _facts_ to be had—the lifeblood of a detective, the food-and-drink of his vocation! Only rumours and suppositions—whispers in the staff break room and the little tidbits Miss Jill allowed to fall from her lovely pink lips! How was Richard ever to discern what was only this deluded Pet Shop owner's fancy and what was _real_?

He said nothing more, swallowing back the rest of his natural ire with great self-control; only setting his firm lips together in a thin, unattractive line and turning abruptly on his heel to face the Pet Shop's ornate door, more than eager to take his leave.

"Well, bonjour, Monsieur!" Count D waved him out merrily, his eyes twinkling with good-natured malice. "And _bonne chance_. Luck is never something we should rely on, correct? But I do bid you good luck in your hunting—most sincerely."

But M'sieur Detective Richard Despard had the last and final word that day, thrown over his shoulder as he paused ever so briefly on the wooden lintel—a gauntlet that lay quivering on the plushly carpeted floor.

"Humph! I am not through yet, Comte," he gritted through white, perfect teeth, and here was the very real man behind the mask, at last—steely jaw, sparkling blue eyes a'glint with intelligence and blindingly brilliant ability when it came to his job. One could believe very easily Richard Despard's much talked-of successes at Interpol were all earned honourably and well.

"He has yet to experience _my_ brand of 'comfort', Comte—so be warned!"

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

PSOH RIVAL #6

"How _dare_ you send him here again, Detective? I was most offended by his cavalier attitude, even if it was Miss Jill who actually escorted him! But was that not your business , that vagrancy case? Why was that man even involved? And have you any idea of what he had the gall to accuse me of? _Charlatan_ was the very least of it—and more, all of it the most rude nonsense. Oh, but I suppose you wouldn't, would you? I imagine he's been most careful not to mention a word of our exchanges—not to _you_, Detective."

"No, what? What d'you mean, Count? What'd he say that's got you all in a tizzy?"

Leon asked the question, true enough, but he certainly wasn't listening. He was _eating_ – carefully, very carefully, so as not to disturb his sore tooth. He felt way too thin and scrawny, to be brutally honest, and maybe that was even true, as he was currently limited pretty much to liquids (_not _a problem, in and of itself, given his usual liquids) and things that could be eaten through plastic straws. But endless microwaved cups of ramen noodles did not for a big, strong detective make and Leon was damned tired of this 'chewing carefully' shit. He was _hungry_, damn it, and all he really wanted was a steak—or maybe a cheeseburger—but definitely a hunk of meat, at least, rare and still twitchy when one poked it, and maybe a baked potato loaded with sour cream on the side. And maybe, too, some apple pie to help it all settle. With ice cream. Vanilla. But ramen noodles came in shrimp, chicken, beef and something kind of fishy called 'Oriental flavor', and not one of those were remotely in the same universe as a grilled T-bone loaded with A-One.

Crying shame, that. Leon frowned just thinking about it. Carefully, of course, because frowning stretched his skin and his jaw was still seven different shades of bruised, out and in. Damned bitch of a dentist!

What he'd actually consumed recently—carefully, very carefully—wasn't enough to keep one of the Count's weird canaries alive. But this, before him, this was one of his absolute favorite foods in the whole wide world, and he'd only managed to find worthy examples of it in two completely disparate places in the whole of his twenty-some years: his mother's linoleum-tiled kitchen, long ago, and here, in the Count's 'Oriental-flavored' parlour, piping fresh and clearly baked by loving hand.

Which was also weird, but who really cared at this point? There was simply no way in hell he wasn't going to eat this—achy tooth and painful jaw be damned, and that psychotic bitch of dentist, too! And while he was eating, he was planning on enjoying every moment of it—because it would fucking hurt like the hammers of hell, godamnit, and therefore he had to wring as much pleasure as possible out of the experience to make it worth the pain!

Effectively then, Leon wasn't listening to a damned thing Count D had to say to him, though he'd do his best to nod and hem and haw at the right moments. But in fact, the Count could've stripped off his silk dress and danced naked on the cake tray and Leon wouldn't care. His mind—his whole, entire attention—was on his cinnamon streusel coffee cake.

"He said he'd 'comfort' you, Leon!"

The Count, for a man who obviously really prided himself on his composure, seemed to have removed the brakes altogether somewhere along the line. Leon was vaguely aware D's voice was rising and emphatic (an unusual occurrence) in the far, far recesses of his mind. He nodded and made a sympathetic humming noise, the one that usually worked with Jill.

"Can you believe it?" The Count apparently took that as encouragement. He kept on, his tone sharper and sharper. "Unconscionable lout, that man. I cannot believe he is a professional, Leon. He possesses no manners, no courtesy. A disgrace to the Precinct, really."

"Hmm-mmm. Mmmm. Mm-mmm-mmm!"

Still nodding companionably, Leon's eyes closed in quiet enjoyment as he tongued the buttery moist crumbs 'round the inside of his sore mouth. It had been something like three days now without any real solid food and the bite of cinnamon streusel crumb cake in his mouth was purely heaven—bliss on a stick, practically.

"_Comfort you_!"

The Count had progressed to a refined huff, his eyes snapping purple-and-gold electric bolts, and the glint in them that clearly meant danger to someone. "Hah! 'Comfort _you_'! Do you even realize what he was implying when he said that, Detective? Do you? I don't see how you can simply sit there like a bumptious lump and ignore this, Detective! The man is a closet pervert; he should be under close observation."

That snagged Leon's attention. Once a cop had worked the Vice Squad for a rotation, he or she was always on the alert for the word 'pervert'— and with good reason.

"Huh? _Richard_ is?"

"_Yes_! That's what I've been saying, Leon. _Do_ pay attention. You're as bad as your pet pervert is, Leon—completely unaware of the ramifications of your rudeness."

"Huh?"

"_Think_, Detective. The man as much came right out and announced he had decided and most specific designs on your virtue. Are you not even the slightest bit appalled? Uneasy, perhaps?"

Leon swallowed his crumb cake and regarded the next bite with dubious speculation. Finally, he shook his head in patent disbelief just before he popped the final morsel into his mouth.

"Naw, don't think so, D. Not him. The guy's packing way too much testosterone to be gay."

"Leon! Testosterone levels have nothing to do with this! He as much as declared to me—entirely unsolicited, mind you—-that you were to be his next target, so perhaps you should take heed to what I'm telling you. Pray tell, Detective, what _will _you do if he backs you into a dark corner in some alley? You'd be helpless., that's what. Completely unprepared."

"Nah." Leon stopped nodding and began shaking his head—carefully—instead. "Uh-uh. Not happening."

"Detective! Really, I am attempting to be helpful to you, here. You could at least do me the courtesy of accepting my word on the matter. I am a keen observer, Detective—you are aware of that, at least," the Count sneered, raising his chin—and his teacup—to a much higher elevation than previous.

Leon finished his methodical chewing, successfully dealing with his prized serving of coffee cake. Emboldened, he eyed a crumpet next, one bursting with melted butter and apricot preserve, still steamy hot from the toaster. He was very fond of those, too, and, after the cinnamon streusel experience, he was feeling pretty daring.

But he shook his head again, decisively, just before he went after a trial bite of that teatime delicacy.

"Nope, nah-unh. Can't see it, Count D. Besides, Richard likes women. You should see the way he reacts to Jill. Hubba hubba's the least of it. Man's a _dog_, D, howling in the night—just like all the rest of us, right?"

"Pfft!"

A small sound of annoyance escaped the narrow-eyed Count. Thinning his lips, he leant forward with his usual calm grace to top up his guest's teacup. Leon went right on masticating his crumpet, unconcerned.

Stymied, Count D bit his lip, his white teeth making little indentations in the rose red flesh. He shook his own head in near-silent frustration, causing the blue-black sweep of his hair to sway, the tips brushing the shoulders of his deep green cheongsam, and eyed his visitor with intensifying degrees of annoyance. Leon hadn't come to the Shop yesterday –-or the day previous- and he'd not even said he was sorry not to have dropped by. He hadn't, in fact, even bothered to pick up the telephone and let D know he wasn't coming.

It had been quite rude of him – and completely unlike the Leon Count D had come to know and…care for over the past few months. Leon might actually _be_ rude, loud and obnoxious to a fault, but he always kept his promises and he did possess some basic manners. The lack of notice (and the subsequent boorish attention solely to the miniature feast D liked to call 'tea') left a sad and sour taste in D's mouth, especially after he'd managed to put that upstart French person who was pursuing _his_ detective so soundly in his place!

But now…now the Count wondered if he'd read all those many, many clues (those sidelong glances, those all too 'casual' and increasingly frequent accidental touches, that particularly soft and sweet expression the Detective wore sometimes when he watched D go about his business) if he'd read them all wrong. If, perhaps, just perhaps, Detective Leon Orcot really was interested only in the arcane knowledge of animal behaviour D could offer and perhaps (just perhaps) that spark of physical attraction and latent amorous intent he'd sensed growing apace between them amounted to nothing more than his own overactive imagination?

It chilled him to the very core, that possibility. He'd been so certain they were only a step away from some form of physical contact; a kiss, perhaps, and then, after that - after _that_, he'd finally be able to know the real Leon Orcot, the one buried beneath the 'Detective', and concealed so very well by the brash young man with the mile-wide air of confidence…till one noticed the shy light that sometimes shone in those amazing sea-blue eyes of his: touch _Leon_, caress _Leon_; have _Leon_ all to his own for once. No untoward interruptions ; no Miss Jill to chaperone unknowingly; no 'police business' to come between them. No rude strangers barging into D's territory uninvited.

D had admittedly anticipated that seemingly inevitable moment with great pleasure. Had indeed, for quite some time now. It was only a matter of coaxing his Detective to notice what was really happening between them and D had great expectations of _that_.

But… if he was by some miscalculation completely _incorrect; _ if this was nothing more than Leon's innate friendliness, his infernal curiosity, his devotion to duty, then it would be a blow, one of major proportions. The fragile bloom of D's newfound affections would be wounded; his just awakened heart would be as bruised and damaged as the detective's unfortunate jaw, and solely due to the fact that the Detective was an oblivious idiot—when it came to some things. Sharp as the proverbial dagger otherwise, of course—D was not about to deal pleasantly with incompetence, not forgive it easily in someone's chosen vocation—but the Detective's heart? A dark and mysterious place, that.

It wasn't mapped, that territory, nor clearly posted. And for such an apparently very open man, such a seemingly clear-cut and honest one, that was most strange. For D, naturally, it only added to the attraction.

"Leon, don't eat that one!" D slapped the detective's reaching hand away just in time. "There are nuts baked in that. You'll only damage your filling."

Leon glanced up from the silver tray and smiled ruefully.

"Thanks, D." He waved his hand in a vague manner at the tray, tacitly turning over the reins to his host. "You wanna choose for me?"

D allowed himself a faint satisfied smirk in return, the little thrill of disease dissipating rapidly in the warmth of his guest's blue gaze.

"This one, then, if you please. It contains an almond flavored cream filling – and I've procured for you a long-bristled soft toothbrush, by the by. It'll be more comfortable for you till your mouth has fully recovered. I do realize my dentist can be…an experience not all grow happily accustomed to. She possess most decided…opinions as to what levels of discomfort are acceptable."

Leon snorted.

"Woman's a total whackjob, D—of the first order, but…hey, she did the job, right? And it _was_ on awfully short notice, too. Anyway, I figure I had it coming, being so stupid making the arrest. That asshole never should've had the chance to even take a jab at me, you know? So, my fault, I guess, in the first place. Got what I had coming."

"Of course not, Detective," D protested. "One should not be punished unduly for merely doing one's duty, but, yes, of course—it _does_ happen. A pity, that. You have my most sincere sympathies."

Leon's outstretched hand instantly cupped his, warm calloused fingertips wrapping around D's demurely folded knuckles, engulfing both his slightly smaller palm, his longer fingers and the cream cake held delicately between them. Their eyes met for a breathlessly long moment, searching, gazes reflecting silent questions and equally muted replies, and then Leon took the cake from D and drew back with a nearly hushed sigh, settling into the sofa cushions as if he were planning to stay there for quite a while.

"Thanks, again, D," he mumbled, lashes sweeping down to shield his blue eyes, and D, despite his very best intentions, blushed, the warmth on his pale cheeks reflecting the flicker in his chest. "You're the best, you know that? Always watching out for me."

"My pleasure, Detective. As always."

Then again, D smirked into his teacup, he _was_ a rather keen observer, was he not? And that imperious, abominably rude player of a Frenchman—_pah_! Didn't stand a ghost of a chance!


	7. Chapter 7

_My apologies for the exceeding long delay. It should be posted sooner now, and regular, and there's only 10 parts altogether anyway. _

_Returning to our small saga, everybody has to plonked in their two cents on this developing situation, even Leon - including Jill, who has a curious secret...? _

**PSOH RIVAL #7**

"Leon, I think we should talk." Jill tipped her chair back on two metal legs in an unconscious imitation of her partner, seeking to put a little space between them. The room they called an 'office' was no bigger than a postage stamp and they were in such close quarters there that they couldn't help but be aware of each other all the time, at least in a physical sense.

Or, rather, _she_ was aware. Leon had a nice bod: firm and muscled, but not bulgy. He had great hair – when it was clean, like today – great skin – no blemishes, no shiny nose – and a great smile, especially now, nearly a week after his oral surgery. It looked like Count D's sadist-slash-dentist had taken off the coffee stains as a bonus – Leon's smile practically sparkled.

"Leon, I talking to you."

Which was the problem. Richard had noticed it as well, it seemed, and now he haunted them, wedging himself into their hole-in-the-wall cubby daily and drooling over Leon like he was an hor's doeuvres or something. In fact, it was a rare moment when the charming Frenchman_ wasn't_ spending time with them; tagging along, showing off the newest evidence collected in their two-week's long search for the hobo's killer, hanging on Leon's every utterance as though he were the Oracle at Delphi. It pissed her off, it did, and what pissed her off even more was that Leon remained clueless.

And he called himself a Detective!

"Leon!"

Of course, the man was clueless about a lot of things: the way Count D watched him, for one, with his odd eyes soft and unfocused, or the way she looked out for him, steering him away from the floozies that worked the dispatch desk, all of whom would have consumed the boy for a snack and left him wrung out to dry and blowing in the wind.

Bitches!

She kinda owed Leon that, though. He'd always looked out for her, even after his initial puppy-love had subsided. It was admittedly a pity that, as his feelings had waned, hers had blossomed. She wasn't just jealous of Richard for the Count's sake, or so her acidic stomach informed her every time she caught the smarmy French bastard close enough to Leon he could practically gnaw on his neck-although she'd certainly never let Leon in on that knowledge now.

For sure, he'd not have a clue what to do with it. Boy was hopeless. Blind—dumb—an idiot!

"You asshole!"

"Huh?"

Leon looked up from the photographs of the hobo's body. They were a sad remembrance of a man who seemed to have no past to anchor him, no friends or family to claim him, no home or churchyard to return his poor, disfigured body to. He was nameless, this victim, another passing John Doe in the night, and that clearly pained Leon greatly. He was frowning when he looked up from poring over the graphic images, his thoughts somewhere else entirely.

"What?"

"Leon, how do you feel about Count D?" Jill thought she might start with a simple enough question; see if she could turn his fine detective's mind to another puzzle altogether. A better one—more rewarding. If she could'nt have him then at least someone she trusted implicitly could.

God knows they deserved each other. The Count was also sort of oblivious, even as sharp as he was.

Jill chuckled, good humour restored.

"The Count, Leon?" she prompted, tapping a fingernail on the beat-up filing cabinet. "What d'you think?"

"Huh?" Leon grunted again, his brows up. "Why are asking me about_ him_?"

Jill brought her desk chair forward with a clatter, looking for just the right words. She put on her best 'elder sister' expression.

"Because I'm afraid you're hurting his feelings, Leon. You need to think about what you're doing. For once."

Leon gaped at her, boggled.

"Hurting his feelings! S'cuse me? What makes you say that? Did he complain 'cause I didn't take him anything from Madame Rinaud's last time? He's got some gall—"

Jill scowled impatiently.

"No! No, Leon, it's not about cake! It's about how the Count feels for you—"

"And how does he, Mademoiselle Jill?"

Richard Despard's question was quiet, weighted with warning. He stood poised smartly in the doorway, all six foot, four inches of him attired in expensive cloth, his honey blonde hair perfectly brushed, his expression gravely concerned. He cocked his manly clefted chin at her, eyes narrowing.

"Oh, hey—" Leon began, but no one was listening. Jill and Richard were intent solely upon each other, each set of eyes measuring and deathly serious.

"How does the Comte 'feel' about our good detective? And are those purported 'feelings' of his valid or is this only some game he plays with mon cher ami? He is, I believe, somewhat suspect. A man with no known past beyond what he claims, selling dubious animals from an equally dubious shop. Hardly the material of a trustworthy defendant."

"D'you mean D?" Leon was puzzled; again, no one paid him any heed. "'Cause I don't think you get it—"

"You're impossible, Despard! You have no idea what's gone on in their pasts—and you probably couldn't comprehend what the Count's already done for Leon if you did—asshole! D's saved Leon's butt, like millions of times. He's been great to all of us, prick!"

Richard only grinned: a long slow sultry grin, one laden with appeal. He tossed his lion's mane and dared drop a wink at her.

"The past?" he repeated. "That so-charming scoundrel's past? Why, I hardly think it matters, Mademoiselle Jill. It is Leon's future I am concerned with, don't you know? I think only of that, believe me. It is—how you say?—paramount. Let's not speak of the past, hmm? It's no longer important."

"Um…thanks for that," Leon muttered, shaking his head. "I…guess."

"Really? _Really_, now?"

Jill snapped her mouth shut with a huff. She glared daggers and knives, for once not entertaining a drop of sympathy for the visiting detective. When she opened her lips again, her tone was sweetly venomous, and Leon finally caught on, his jaw dropping open in shocked comprehension.

"Fine, then, Monsieur Despard. Since the Count isn't here to defend himself, let's talk about _you_. Tell me - how do_ you_ feel about my 'dear friend' Leon, Richard? Is it 'love'? Or merely lust? You wanna take care of him or d'you want in his pants? Tell us all about it, honey—we've got the time."

.


	8. Chapter 8

**PSOH 'Rival' #8 **

_How much trouble can one single solitary homicide detective get into? How many people can possibly lust after his-well, you know, right? Ahem…family jewels. And who is it that's planning the heist of the century, I ask you? _

_Option A: The lovely foreign detective, Richard? He of the charming manners and Chevalier accent; the 'sharp-dressed man' of fable?_

_Option B: The lovely and down-to-earth Jill, who can sniff out budding bromance a mile away and owns a well developed sense of mischief as well as a very nicely stacked rack? _

_Option C: The lovely and very mysterious Count D, who possesses strange powers, great knowledge and (possibly) a debilitating strain of shyness? _

…_Which one? _

_Place your bets, peoples. _

_Warning: Cliffie. Yupper, cliffie. Hate me, do. (Huggles you peoples that don't hate me. The cliffie was necessary here. All cliffies are necessary, as this is a mystery, folks. Not much of one, I admit, but still…play along, won't you?)_

Leon sat in his familiar place, plopped in a heap on the Count's sofa, cozied up next to the arm on the very end cushion for comfort. He had his head firmly within his broad long-fingered hands, clutching it, and his dirty-blond hair was tousled and mussed, sticking up and out at all angles as if he'd been holding his head exactly the same way and repeatedly throughout the day and not only at this one single moment of deeply unhappy repose.

His last conversation with Jill had been carefully boxed up in a species of impervious corrugated mental cardboard, taped with sufficient duct tape to within an inch of becoming _all_ duct tape and very little actual box, labeled 'Highly Volatile!' in giant red letters and set quietly in a storage room near the very back of his brain. He'd been tiptoeing around that section ever since. It was cordoned off, even. With brilliant yellow 'Caution' tape.

…Nevertheless, Leon couldn't possibly ignore it. Nope.

Count D sat in his chair opposite the detective, stiffly, his ever-present cuppa cradled in both hands, his eyes cast down to the elegant floral carpeting 'neath their feet. And, for once in his life, he didn't dare raise those odd-colored eyes and face his detective squarely and with his usual decorum. He kept mum as an owl, as a muted platypus, and controlled his wayward tongue with an iron will.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!"

It was a quiet growl, with a hint of despair thrown in on the way out. The growl of a frustrated man, confronted with a shitload of those godawful 'feelings' and having just had his snout firmly rubbed into them by his personally self-appointed lion tamer.

"Oh _fuck_, D…"

Leon glanced up through his fingers at the man he'd come to tell his troubles to and quirked his firm manly lips into a rueful half-smile, as though inviting the Count to laugh along with. Despairingly—ironically, even. Not that this was a laughing matter; oh, no. Not if his ass was on the line, it wasn't. And his ass was—literally. Because some foreign-accented idiot bisexual of an Interpol bigwig had definite designs upon it! On—on pummeling it, with his French-accented cock! And Leon's best pal—his partner!—had only just pointed that out.

"She's crazy! _**He**__**'**__**s**_ crazy – I mean, what the hell would_he_ want with _me_? I have trouble hanging on to women, D! How the hell could I possibly attract a _man_?"

"Indeed." Even the Count's voice was stiffer than a starched shirt, fresh from a Chinese laundry. He clamped his lips shut, possibly fretting that his jaw bone might crack if he said one word more.

"They just have to be joking, right?" Leon took his hands away from his head, raising his chin to gaze fully at his friend, his clear blue eyes confused and troubled. "This is just them pulling my leg, right, D? Tell me it is."

The Count instantly cast his gaze elsewhere in the room, examining intently several stray dust motes and quirked his slashing black brows somewhat sympathetically. He shook his dark head, just slightly, and murmured but one word. With effort.

"…Maybe."

"Arrrgh!"

The blond hair suffered much nasty tugging; the detective's fingertips clenched, unknowingly mirroring the inexorable tightening of long scarlet nails on a fragile teacup handle.

"You think he was serious?" Agitated, Leon sprang up and took a step towards D's overstuffed armchair. He stopped short, flung his hands out in a distinct aggrieved manner and paced in a tight little circle. "You think he might have really meant it? D!"

"Mmm."

"Arrrgh! **Fucking****A**, D!" A cry from the detective's troubled heart echoed all about the room. "Shit! Shit-shit-shit onna stick with bells on! No—shit on _two_sticks!"

The Count remained obdurately silent. The dust motes were in process of being tallied individually; he'd reached three thousand-and-three already. But…he was reaching the bitter end of his patience.

"D! _Talk__to__me_! Help me, goddamnit! Tell me what the fuck you think's going on here!" Leon demanded, returned to pacing. Pacing happened to show off the flex of his trim hips nicely, as the furtively glancing Count took note. "'Cause I'm so blown away right now, I can't think at all!"

The Count closed his burning hip-dazzled eyes with a soft sigh, a bare wisp of a breath taken in for courage. He swallowed that air with determination, his throat dry as dust despite all that Oolong, taking a long moment to impose stern order upon both himself and his wayward thoughts of leaping upon the brick-brained booby of a detective and wrestling him bodily down on to the convenient divan.

"D. Please!"

And then D—reluctantly—opened them wide, finally meeting the shaken detective's frantic stare with a leveled, two-toned gaze.

Leon rubbed his head with his hands, going in wee circles, his sneakers scuffing. He looked to be all of three and yet still…quite attractive.

The Count blinked, buying time. Something he _never_ had to do in the normal course of events. But in this case—! Bah! Humans were just so—_so_infuriatingly dense, especially this one.

Absolutely _this__one_, in particular.

"Ahem. I think…it's possible, yes. You _are_ attractive, Detective." the Count dropped his lids again, for a brief moment, his face tight. "To some. Yes, you actually _are_."

"D! Stop fucking with me! Come on, man—give me a straight answer, alright? I can't stand this! How I am supposed to go to work in the mornings? I'm dead-fucking-meat! Meat!"

Unceremoniously, without warning, he dropped to his denimed knees, crowding the tea table and jostling the Count's tight-clamped silk-clad legs. He put his hands out and gripped at D's napkin-covered thighs, obviously tormented by the newly revealed knowledge that his sometime-buddy Richard had the not-so-secret hots for his very own self.

And Jill knew it! _And_ was egging the flamer on, like nobody's business, all (apparently) just to make Leon squirm!

Evil Jill! Rotten Richard! What the _fuck_?

"D, you have to help me!" Leon pleaded, his eyes intent upon his sometime saviour. Here was a guy who actually understood females—_and_'feelings'—_and_ what to do about them when they got all screwed up in a person's head and were messy and muddy and turned totally spaghetti. "Don't y'_see_? I can't just tell him to fuck off and go pound sand – Jill'll kill me! She'll say I'm being an obnoxious prick and then she'll make my life hell for weeks on end! And I can't just ignore it—what if he jumps me? We're out all hours on reconnaissance, D—I'm _vulnerable_ here! Like a bloody virgin! What the fucking hell am I going to do about _**this**_?"

"Al…right. Fine."

The Count extended a pale hand, finally releasing his death grip on his cup handle. It was a hand that trembled ever so slightly, yes, and it took its time in the approach, finally landing upon the anxiously awaiting detective only to take up brushing long-taloned nailed nails fondly through the gold of his dear (profoundly dense) detective's hair.

The Count essayed a small smile, quick and unwanted moisture welling in his unusual eyes, and promptly blinked any hint of it back. He'd firmly leashed in his libido, which was snarling 'round his chest, thumping at his ribcage and making a fuss. He'd religiously clamped down upon the bulge barely hidden by the square of linen in his lap, despite the fact it actually ached like a sore tooth and had shown no signs of subsiding whatsoever, even as his detective ranted on about the squishy pitfalls of homoerotic love. Further, he'd firmly controlled the equally imperceptible tremor in his even tenor—or so he thought. But…perhaps…not enough.

"If I help you, Leon –_if_ I should help you and advise you how to let your poor pathetic Richard down gently—as a gentleman would any unwanted suitor—will you then say the same to me? Will you use those same exact words?"

"D?"

Leon gulped. He stared up at the Count, affixed and caught out by the brilliance of drowned amethyst and glittering molten metal, ensnared and netted by the immense wealth of feeling that reflected in their different depths. He released a firm thigh, brought his hand up and out ever so slowly—like chilled molasses in motion and quite possibly nearly unaware that he did so—and laid the sweat-damp palm of it ever so gently upon the smooth-shaven plane of the Count's flushed cheek.

"**D**! _Don__'__t_ tell me—"


	9. Chapter 9

**PSOH RIVAL #9**

"Of—ahem!" D cleared his throat. "Of course not, Detective. I was…merely—only…"

He smiled narrowly, his first line of defense, but a certain tenderness was undeniable in the mock of the curve. Blinked ever so slowly, blandly blank-faced, gallantly determined not shock his dear detective speechless by either freezing solid nor bawling in front of him. Not that he would ever conceive of crying—nor screaming, like the woman the Detective claimed he was, sometimes. Though the urge to do so was building up fiercely behind the silken knots of his high-collared tunic.

He smiled, and ferociously. Like a warrior would. He'd not go down without a whimper—not D.

…There was still a modicum of pride left within him, a stubborn note that would not allow him to rail against Leon, however much the stupid blind dolt of a degenerate lout deserved it. Berate him roundly; blame him wholesale for not understanding that D, too, was a once-reluctant victim of the detective's idiot charm.

D—reaching mentally for every trick in his arsenal—grasped at the ancient art of turning tables. He'd give no ground, no—but perhaps the Detective could be persuaded to give some over?

"…Actually, Detective, what did you think I meant by that?"

"Huh?"

At Leon's wide eyes, the Count pulled back abruptly, away from the lingering and likely absentminded caress of straying fingertips, and straightened his spine to an impossible degree, eyes flashing. He was no mere lagomorph—no hypocrite, either. Not at all like that _poser_—and here he borrowed a word from his Detective's expansively vernacular vocabulary—_Richard_, who only lay in wait like a spider, plotting. .

Plotting foully—to snatch D's particular Detective right out from under his very nose!

"You heard me, Leon," the Count snapped. "Or did you bother to think at all?"

"D? Uh, D?"

Leon's face was a study of hesitant, questioning disbelief and then, and by extremely rapid degrees, realization dawned there full bloom, a purposeful force that completely disregarded the Count's feebly half-hearted attempt to restore their normal relationship.

"D! Ummm…?"

"Yes, Detective? You were saying?"

…Not that their relations had ever been—nor would ever—be what one would consider 'normal'. The Count tipped a delighted curl of upper lip at that thought. Even Leon couldn't possibly claim he treated D like any other man. Couldn't possibly!

"D! Wait a minute, D! Hang on a sec!"

The detective came out of his stasis-state and surged forward, wedging his waist between the Count's tremulous thighs, and proceeded to capture D's face with both large, rough-skinned hands. He grinned, the edge of triumph curving his lips—and whooped! D shuddered infinitesimally at the startling and inarticulate noise of triumph—sheer _male_ triumph! – but…he made no move to squirm away.

Blue eyes glittered fiercely; the Detective was incandescent with sudden understanding. It seemed he'd 'gotten it'…finally.

"Huh! 'Joking'? I _don__'__t_ think so, D. Show me just how it was you were 'joking.'"

"Ah?" The Count's jaw dropped. There was a very odd gleam in those innocent eyes. Very…odd. "…Leon?"

"Ah!" Leon snickered. "A**hah**—!" And D's slightly rounded lips were then promptly latched on to, by another. Male. Mouth. "Grrrrrmmmmh!"

The growl was a happy one, 'delicious morsel' being the implication. The Count couldn't help but grin into it even as his lips were battered and smushed flat.

Locked at lip-point; glued by spit. As caught—the two of them—as moths in a very cosmic web, perhaps by a very prescient and god-like spider. D moaned at the unknowable mysteries of the Ancients, presenting him with this! This-this-this! Leon joined him, groaning loudly…and put the breadth of his wide shoulders into his kiss, rearing up onto his knees, slamming his upper body forward and grinding down his newly repaired jaw into the more delicately angular version the Count presented him.

"Nnh-uhn-uhn!"

D was delighted. Devastated—undone. He bit at the slobbery lips—more for purchase than punishment—and tilted his head into responding with vigour, hands fluttering up, nails curving in a red slash through the air. As scarlet and shocking as the rents across the homeless men's flesh had been, were they. As visceral, this kiss.

"Mmpgh—_D_!" Leon growled. Nipped in return and then practically raped D's tonsils and glottis, forging in and onward and down deep. Delightful! "Fu-_fucking _**A**, D!"

The Count gurgled even as he choked on excess saliva, swallowing; a sweet sound that pleased the Detective no end. His fingers dug into the Count's back harshly, seeking to show just how very pleased he was.

The dust motes trembled, a'swirl in the air. The actual _air_ trembled, barely in motion. Muted afternoon sunlight washed the Parlour in peaceful golden tones, seeping delicately though the rattan blinds, and the Count trembled too, not even breathing—but then! Then he growled and threw himself forward with even more force than his detective had, in an awkward lunge that nearly bowled the man right off his sneakered soles…or rather, his wincing kneecaps.

…For all that, the first kiss had been soft in the beginning: a mothwing brush of dry skin against tea-moist flesh; a barely perceptible touch that had frozen the Count in place and stopped his respiration for a half-hitch heartbeat. When Leon pressed harder and D was forced to angle his dark sleek head to accommodate, at first helpless before the detective's insistence – before his own desire for that first, long-awaited, kiss—when that split-second of universal 'moment' occurred—D was helpless.

….And then not 'helpless' at all! D was beyond pleased. Then, only then, was the die cast. Truly cast. Undeniable.

No going back—no excuses allowed. No idiotic 'star witness material', no 'professional relationship only', no 'playing fast-and-loose' with hearts and bodies. Above all, no polite lies. All that was but a smoking heap of ashes, giving way before a tidal wave of harrowingly physical fire.

"Mrrrrr—ummmm!" Delighted; D set forth to make his peculiar mark indelible. His every appetite surged, stacking precariously in dribs of 'want!' and 'desire!', a _tour__de__force_ of hungry atoms.

He brought his own pale hands up readily, grasping Leon's where they bound him tightly at slope of shoulder, and held on fast for dear life, for a tongue was penetrating him, forcing its way into all the sweet, hungry crevasses of his mouth. Choking him, with the nectar of long-wanted juices, tantalizing him with quick nudges of muscular tip and the soft spongy brush of gum. Perfect teeth, all in a white shiny row…marbled slabs to be delicately poked at and then crudely gouged.

D swallowed the remnant of cinnamon and butter, a crumb or two and nearly Leon's tongue. It was wet and sloppy. Their lips smeared, reddening, puffing at bow and drooling at imperfectly closed corner.

Leon groaned at the tastes—_breakfast? __Home,__again? __No__—__**here**_! _Oh, __god, _here, _with __him_, went his rambling mind, ever so briefly—and brought his hands frantically to D's throat, carefully urging him into a closer embrace. Incidentally yanking him off-balance completely, too, as they simply could not get a smidgen closer than they already were, so precariously balanced were they.

D's ass slipped on the satiny upholstery; Leon rocked where he knelt. They grappled, the Count still in a vaguely disbelieving state, the detective caught like a sodden fly in abrupt desire, and then the Count gently toppled straight out of his elegant armchair.

The tea table skittered sideways, contents rattling; the carpet rucked up, wrinkling beneath rolling bodies, flying silk—swooping hands.

The Toutetsu—snorting in disgust and muttering darkly—slammed the Parlour door behind him on his way out. But no one heeded.

"Fucking c'mere, _you_!" Leon ordered D, grabbing madly. Rolled them again and again, to-and-fro, and heard vaguely the crash of a porcelain platter falling. Could care less for that. "Come the hell _here_!"

"Umph!" the Count gasped, not having expected to be squashed. Or to be carelessly banging his forehead on his own furniture. "Oh!" But liking it, all the same. "Hnh!"

"_Shit_!"

Leon scrambled atop his erstwhile host and chosen confidante and then settled in, full-length sprawled and weight deliberately distributed to abort any movements of the Count's before they even started.

"Gotcha!"

The hand that wasn't propping him up moving rapidly down D's tightly fastened cheongsam, popping fasteners with a total lack of respect and tugging them apart fiercely, till D's pale torso lay open to his hungry mouth.

"O-oh!" The Count moaned, shifting and squirming under sudden heat and wet. "Le—oh!"

"Ah!" Leon exclaimed, vastly pleased. "Oh, fuck yeah!" Somewhere in the back of his mind, and situated curiously near that cordoned-off area labeled 'Highly Volatile!' in large red letters, he'd known all along his pal Count D was goddamned well _edible_. No skin could be that smooth—that creamy pale—and not taste just as it looked; no one could be that well put-together and not pleasure every sense into frenzy. No way, no how. Wasn't fucking possible! "Mmm!"

Fucking D smelled good; he tasted awesome. He had sweet little nipples that were pebble-hard and a concave stomach—not a spare ounce on him anywhere and all of it taut like piano wire. Leon wanted it. All of it, this minute—right now. Totally, completely—right. Effing. Now!

"Wanna fuck you!"

Leon wanted the trail of midnight black curls that led downward, arrowing the path to what had to be a very fine ass. He lusted after the jut of hip bones—the spring of long and likely lily white-skinned uncut cock blushing red behind drawstring silk trousers. Balls that gathered as his did, steamy hard-and-full like hot dumplings. The heat of it and the unleashed passion—and the bite of pointy nail-tips into his flinching shoulders as D worked hastily on returning the favour, shredding Leon's work shirt to ribbons in the process.

D did not a thing to prevent any of it—nope, not a thing, and this from a guy well able to handle himself in any fight. No…he arched up instead, offering of himself, and rubbed his bare chest against the roughness of Leon's gaping-open denim shirt when Leon stopping sucking long enough to nuzzle blindly, moaning. They kissed again: open-mouthed, legs entangling, fingers reaching to grope between heated thighs and ease the insistent thrust of hardening flesh.

"You're pretty, D. So _pretty_," Leon mumbled over a nipple—they beckoned him; he couldn't seem to stop—and then shut his feverish eyes in delight at its faint flavor. Lemon? Almond? Whatever! "I think I—I think I!" he began, but was cut off short when the Count deftly pinched _his_ nipples."Nuuu-**uh**!"

"Is…that so?" D crooned, jerking when Leon bit his collarbone lightly, and proceeded to claw his way close enough to capture the detective's mouth once again. "_Really_, now?" His hips rolled invitingly; his shallow navel lay exposed by Leon's hasty removal of his tunic. "Ungh!" The hand that stripped him down to his silken skivvies returned with alacrity to circle it and then caress the bulge between the Count's long legs– the Count twitched again and cried out. "De-Detective!"

"This is _sooo_ much _better_," Leon purred in D's ear, tonguing it, and then easing that hot, wet organ down the side of D's straining throat. His dick throbbed in his groin, painfully but real nice-like. "I _like_ this—I like this a lot!"

"Mmmh...hah!" The Count only moaned and sighed; Leon took for encouragement.

His fingers fumbled expertly and found a rhythm, pumping, one that boiled D's brain in his skull-case. The Count could only reply in kind, panting, long painted nails skittering round the hot weight residing in Leon's jeans. "Oh!"

"Yes!" Leon was succinct. "Yes, there-there, there, there, D!"

"Ah-ah-ah-there-yes-right-there!" The Count was all for action over talking. But curious, all the same, like a cat. " …Really?" He questioned the puzzling refernce to 'better' even as the detective's sturdy five-button fly parted ways all too easily, metal circlets kissing the eyeholes goodbye-and-good riddance and then the fabric being unceremoniously shoved down those eye-dazzling hips. "Mmmm…nice it is, Detective…_very_ nice…yes."

"Yesss!"

"Ungh!" D grunted, twitching as he groped at…nothing? No skivvies, no manly boxers? "Oh!"

Leon, apparently, went commando.

"Mmm!" This is another point in humanity's favour. D licked his lips in appreciation. "…uhmmm…."

"Um," the detective hummed eagerly, echoing D, and swallowed all the sharp edges and silken curves of a wicked-ass riddle-speaking tongue again, lost to everything but his soon-to-be lover's hands and wet mouth and the sensuous drawl of his ever-so-slightly breathless commentary. "Uh-huh. _You__'__re_ so much better, D, than that damned gay cop," the detective whispered happily, between jabbing kisses. "Don't get him—I **don****'****t**. _You_, I understand."

"_He_? Hmm? Wha—? Wait!"

The Count's deft hands faltered; he drew his head back fast as cobra striking, odd eyes staring up at the detective in consternation. His swollen red mouth opened slightly in silent question, his black brows gathered together in the beginnings of a rather furious frown.

"He _touched_ you?" There was a certain plaintive outrage in the Count's breathless tone: a tirade in the making. "That Frenchman…touched you?"

"Urgh. Uh-huh." The detective ducked his chin.

"Excuse me?" D was appalled. Horrified and irritated to the point of insensibility. His eyebrows expressed that to a nicety. "S-Say again?" he hissed, eyes abruptly narrow evil slits.

Leon grimaced, shrugging and nodding, and then bowed his shaggy head swiftly down onto the welcoming hollow of D's naked armpit, not at all comfortable at meeting those searching eyes.

"Yeah, I guess." He bit the swell of tender flesh by his nose—musky it was, and salty—in a play to distract, but the Count had gone dead still and unresponsive beneath him, obviously pondering the fact that his hopefully soon-to-be fuck buddy had already been kinda intimate with another man. "Kinda."

"You… '_guess_'?" D gasped. "How is it you do not _know_, Leon Orcot?"

Completely miffed with the Detective's totally unsatisfactory mumble, the Count began a feeble struggle to both withdraw and arise, clutching at his tattered silks and dragging them willy-nilly back over his semi-nakedness. This despite the contrary detective's making every stolid effort to keep him pressed down into the carpet insistently, clearly unwilling to give up the ground he'd gained. They struggled silently for a second, strength against strength, tumbling here and flailing there, bumping the legs of the furniture, till Leon burst out with another shocking revelation.

"Jill kissed me, too, ok? What does it matter, anyway? _I__'__m_ kissing _you_!"

"Merciful Buddha!"

The Count's head fell back, hitting the floor with an audible rap, and he released his grip upon his silk drawstring waistband where he'd been attempting to yank his trousers back up. His eyes were wider than Leon had ever seen them, and totally blank.

"_Miss __Jill_ kissed you? Her, too?"

The Count didn't so much as blink at Leon; only stared piercingly. Leon blushed a fiery hue, his fingers fiddling aimless and sorrowfully reminiscent down D's gorgeous ribcage, and ducked his head in red-cheeked embarrassment.

"Yeah, so?" he demanded fretfully. And pouted. "Whaa-at?"

"…Whom else?"

_That_ caught the detective's attention: the faint horror in D's reedy thread of a question, cresting hushed on a long-suffering sigh. Sadly—Leon noticed this in passing—the heady flush of carnal excitement had already fled the Count's features, leaving them pale and wan and suddenly very tired. Violet shadows smudged beneath his shuttered eyes even as his sooty lashes fluttered down to quiver across the nipped-in planes of exquisitely high cheekbones.

"Whom _else_, Detective?"

Leon gaped. It wasn't as though he was cheap or anything! Far fucking from it, goddamn it!

D brought a regal hand to the bridge of his nose, and proceeded to pinch it so sharply the skin whitened, exhaling again, and Leon suddenly felt the urge to shout.

"_No __one __else_! Nobody, D! I swear! And it was only one kiss – well, two; one from each of 'em – so what are _you_ so frigging upset about? _You_ weren't even there to protect me!"

"…Ah."

D stared wide-eyed, arrested, and opened his mouth several times without a sound escaping, as though he might reply to this—this completely unwarranted accusation – if he only he could figure out how. In English. Or in 'Leonese', which was vastly different even than the fractured English the Americans spoke.

"Ah….? So…" Truly, D had no idea even how to phrase the whirlwind of questions hammering insistently at the forefront of his mind. "Ah?" He tried gamely, though, focusing on the one thing—the paramount thing. "And—and you enjoyed them—those assaults, Detective? They—they pleased you?"

"_What_? Sheesh, D! Get real, why don'tcha'?" Leon sneered, hissing impatiently, thoroughly pissed at being interrupted by such a small stupid thing. He only wanted to erase the memory of those other kisses; bury them in sweet sensation. Wash them clean away with D's cinnamon-butter lime-tasting spit. "I mean—jeezus, D! Get a damned grip!"

"Oh, _no_, Detective."

The Count, however, having reached the end of his mental rope, knew not what else to do but laugh.

"No, really!" he gasped, huffing, flinging his arms out aimlessly and spreading those pale fingers of his wide and helpless. "No, no, no, it can't be!" he snorted. "I don't believe it, Detective! Only—only _you_!"

"Whaaaat?" Leon was confused. No—Leon was completely boggled. He'd of thought D would be pleased with him. For resisting—'cause, man, a kiss was a damned kiss, right, no matter where it came from? And it wasn't as if he ever got enough of those, what with working all the time and dressing like a registered slob at a thrift shop convention and not being able to pick up anyone decent no matter how many single's bars he cruised. For fuck's sake, Jill was on his case all the time to straighten up and fly the hell right; get a goddamn life—as if he could! And…and hadn't D himself always said he was a mess? Mannerless and undignified and kinda crude? "**Hey**!"

The Count only giggled—which was fucking scary as shit. Guffawed, shivering where he lay pinned and literally clawing at the air for more oxygen, his whole body shaking with mad mirth, till tears ran silvery from beneath his long lashes and his would-be lover Leon was reduced to incoherent huffing. That comprised half of pure parboiled rage and half of bewilderment; his face mottled pink and pale, his lower lip bitten, and he reduced to jiggling at D's naked shoulders as though the elegant Count were but a rag doll, caught in a raging child's hands.

"What?" he barked. "I don't get you! _What __the __fuck_?"


	10. Chapter 10

**PSOH RIVAL #10**

"…You alright?"

Richard Despard nodded, but not convincingly. Jill frowned at him.

"Want another? My treat."

"No. We shouldn't be partaking so early in the day, ma cheri," Despard replied dolefully. "The Chief wouldn't like it. He will be…ah! _Most_ disappointed." Nevertheless, he chuckled softly, as if it knocked his Gallic funny bone and caught him out in a sly hypocrisy to disturb and distress a man who spent a large part of his life existing in that natural state. "Even," he added slowly, as if a startling revelation were dawning upon his leonine head, "with me. That would be bad thing, my sweet. I prefer him, how shall I say? Équilibré!"

"Sure, sure," Jill muttered, knocking back the remnants in her glass in a professional manner. "Whatever, pal. Just 'cause you get away with shit Leon and I would be totally canned for…but whatever."

The visiting detective paid no heed. He propped his cleft chin upon his fist and stared off blindly into the bar's plated glass mirror, lost again in a blue funk—the exact same blue funk that had his self-appointed cheerleader dragging him bodily out of the Precinct office at only ten in the morning with promises of 'Coffee! Donuts! _More_ coffee. Just what you need, Riiichard, trust me…and maybe something stronger!'

A handsome man was reflected there, wavy in the smoky glass; all tawny gold hair and perfectly shaped nose, with eyes of Mediterranean blue and a charming quirk to his rueful lips.

"Just as…as _I_ am," he sighed, despondent despite his perfectly marvelous appearance. "Disappointed."

He earned an offhanded shrug for his troubles.

"As Leon says, 'screw the effing Chief, dude.' Some things are more important, Riiichard."

Jill leered at him, winking, her head tilted just so, like a curious sparrow's. Two Cosmos, one draught lager, three handfuls of peanuts and no lunch had summoned out the woman who lurked always behind the 'lady' detective.

"Screw the Chief, eh?" Despard pulled a face. "I don't think so."

"Is what you need, pal. Comfort food, for one." His mentor flapped a hand at the bar-room's long mirror and the hunk of mahogany they were bellied up to, like ponies to trough. "Beer nuts, baby. And comfort booze, for another. Scotch. Awesome stuff, Scotch. Have one with me, 'kay?"

"Oui, well….I don't know so much about that, my sweet." Despard glanced dubiously at the bar's bowls of brine-encrusted peanuts, shaking his head ever so slightly. "The boozing. I must, how you say? Tread the narrow and the straight now. I have only my job left to me, to occupy me now my love has flown. Life is tedious, Miss Jill, and…life is serious and me –me, I shouldn't be drinking _at__all_."

He sighed theatrically, his hand-woven woolen coat sleeve trailing into his martini in his abstraction.

"Wimp!" Jill h'mmphed merrily and unfazed, raising her nearly empty tumbler in a toast to nothing much in particular and incidentally signaling the hovering bartender for another round. "What's a little broken heart 'tween pals, Riiichard? Come on—be a real man, buddy-boy, not a wuss!"

"What'll it be, folks?"

"Meh," Richard sighed. "I really don't believe it will help, ma cheri…I am too far gone, as they say. So sad. So…miserable…"

Jill shook her bright head impatiently over her fellow detective's sad mumble. If there were shattered hearts to be drowned and put up for pickling, she was the woman for the job. She pinned the barkeep with a look, as he was eyeing the two of them askance. Jill wasn't taking shit from anyone today, no thanks.

"Scotch—the good shit, not that watery crap you feed the tourists, yeah? Doubles, please—straight up, thanks." She nudged Despard with a quick elbow, jolting him out of his reverie. "And…you know, you _say_ that shit, Riiiichard, about not disappointing people, but then you're crying in your beer here, goody two-shoes. He really got you coming and going, didn't he? Leon, I mean." She rolled a shoulder, just as Gallically as the Frenchman she accompanied; snorting softly at his pursed lips and tiny forehead furrow of dispair. "Stupid Leon. Pain in my ass."

"Here you go. That'll be—"

"My tab, if you please," Despard smiled obligingly, "and a generous pourboire for you, m'sieur." He fluttered his fingers at the server.

"Hey! Thanks!" Apparently the bartender knew enough French to translate the word 'tip', even if he didn't speak a word of any language other than English. He obligingly slid two glasses of aged single malt their way and plucked a twenty out of the pile heaped before the handsome foreign gentleman, flashing a grateful grin at them both. Jill ignored him soundly, taking hers up immediately and proceeding to lick the rim; Despard only returned to his grey reverie, ignored the new offering in favour of running a fingertip 'round the lip of his nearly emptied martini glass.

"Riiight, okay. Um, call me if you need me, folks. Enjoy."

The bartender took himself off, returned to lurking at the far end of the mahogany.

"Er, ah…'coming and going', my sweet?" Shaking himself the tiniest bit as if to clear his head, Despard scowled charmingly at the lonely olive, skewered through its heart of pimento on a little plastic sword. "But…but that would imply—and I never. _He_ never."

A small toss of Jill's head cut him off.

"Hey. Leon _does_ that, pal. Fact. S'his thing, oblivion—it's his middle name, get me? Has no clue—not a single one. Dude's too much of a blinkered nitwit to tell his ass from an anthill, okay? Marlene, over in the Filing Room—you met her, right? Brunette, with those V-neck sweaters she always wears? And the nails? Well the poor thing pestered him for years, after any piece of him she could lay those nails of hers on—heh!" she chuckled darkly. "Never got anywhere even close, and he _still_ has no idea why she won't give him the time of day-_now_. He's hopeless, Richie-baby. Clueless as all get out…and—and brain-dead and, um."

She paused and Despard waited for more, oh, so politely. He'd not long to wait, no, but there was faintest hint of a telltale catch in her voice when she continued.

"Uh-um. Richard? You're…not alone, you know? You and Marlene aren't the only ones."

An elegantly shaped golden eyebrow angled up; his tiny curious scowl slid into a commiserating grin.

"….Yes?" he replied, winningly. "Et tu, ma chéri ? Same ship, eh—you and I. As you say. We are, the both of us, disappointed, then."

"Well! I dunno about that, pal!" Jill humped a shoulder blade, huffing; the same one Despard was patting in a vaguely avuncular way. "But sure. Yeah, why not? Same fucking ship, Riiiichard. No big deal, eh? Happens all the time so get over it."

"..So it does…" The Frenchman gallantly tossed back the remains of his martini, having thoughtfully removed the skewered olive first. 'So it does."

There was a little silence, while Jill mused and Richard Despard stared deeply into his own reflected eyeballs.

"…Hey, um? Richie?" Jill shifted on her stool, fidgeting.

"Hmm?" Sipping his Scotch meditatively, the Interpol detective repetitively tapped a manly manicured fingernail on the sticky surface of the bar. "Jill, m'petite, I am sorry for your affliction, but…yet. The case is not the same. You'll forgive me, I'm sure, but…this Marlene woman you mention and myself—it is _not_ the same. I do not know," he mumbled, waving a hand at it, "I just do not."

"Know what?"

"What to make of it, naturellement!" Despard regarded his separate features in all seriousness, taking in the fine symmetry of them—the cut of his bespoke suit, his knot of silk pinstriped tie. The breadth of shoulder—the sincere expression. "It is—it is not logical, ma cheri!"

"Huh?" Jill gulped and swallowed a bit more than she expected to; she erupted into a bout of coughing that had Despard absentmindedly patting her back.

"You are well, my little flower? Ah, oui—very good."

"Mpgh! –'ank 'oo!"

"Oh, it was as nothing, really…But…I must just ask this of you, as an intimate of my sweet Leon."

"Uh...yeah?" Jill, still a bit pink, nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead, hon. Ask away."

"Is there perhaps something ill-favoured about me?" The Frenchman looked all at once very troubled. "Some…tiny defect I just simply do not see? Is that it, ma petite amie? As, you see," he whined, waving at the mirror, "..._I_ do _not_ see it, no. _I_ am not a troll, ma cheri! I am not a poor specimen at all; others have told me often enough I am even a-a catch, as you Americans call them. Tell me, how could he ever have chosen that wretched popinjay over _me_?"

"Jeezus!" Jill giggled and batted at him, tresses flying. "You_are_ full of yourself, aren't you? What an ass! It's just like Leon said!"

"Eh? Pardon? Full...of myself?" Despard looked down at his trim belly, currently clothed in a very nice waistcoat. "What does that mean, precisely? And…Leon has said this? To you?"

"Yep." Jill nodded firmly, no nonsense. "He did."

"…Oh…"

The cleft chin wobbled, just a bit. Jill, catching sight of it, huffed and gave him a fast forearm rub with her knuckles.

"Look. S'not important, okay?" She pushed the same restless hand through her hair, dislodging the clip so it tumbled down upon her shoulders, instantly removing the last vestiges of 'professional female'. "What Leon said. Leon's an asshole, remember? What's important now is—_you,_asshole._Riiichard_." Fingers grabbed at her fellow detective's shoulder and joggled it fiercely. "There's not a thing wrong with you, alright? You're great—_really_. Just. Great. Easy on the eye, really well dressed, charming—Frenchified, got this excellent accent—all that."

"Oh, but—"

"Shut up, I'm talking here, okay? Lemme finish. I mean, Richard, it's like you hold the door for me. _Me_! That never happens! _I__'__m_ your goddamn fan for life, okay? And I know for fact a lot of other people are, too. You've got the whole goddamned Precinct eating out of your hand, pal; believe me. So don't you worry your pretty li'l head over Leon. Wasn't _you_, bud—it was _him_."

"…Yes?" The Interpol officer seemed very dubious. "You are certain there was absolutely…_nothing_…I could've…might've…? I mean, I can change my appearance—ah! my wardrobe." He flapped his fingers at his fine suiting. "My wardrobe! It was too much, wasn't it? He is fond of this denim—these ridiculous t-shirts, is he not? But…it is but a simple thing to procure another!"

"Oh, jeez…" Jill slapped her forehead in a gesture of frustration. "You're not listening, are you?"

Despard evidently wasn't.

"Or-or is it my hair?" he babbled on. "Is it that he prefers the brunet ones, ma petite? I can, of course, dye it—"

"_No_, dumb ass—nothing! _Don__'_t dye your damned hair, alright? Really, _really_. It was never gonna happen, you know? You and Leon. This thing with Count D, right? Been a long time comin'._That_ was gonna happen—no doubt about it. Not _your_ fault, Richard. Not. Your. Fault."

"No?" Despard's face fell. "Nothing? ….And you are, beyond any doubt, certain he won't—there isn't—?"

"_No_, Richard. No! Give it up, already, okay? No hope. Dead in the water—DOA. But—uh. Look, buddy, you. You're kinda blue right now. An' I can surely understand that. Positive you don't want another? I kinda think you need it, you know what I mean?"

She poked him in the ribs with an elbow, meeting his eyes in the smoky mirror.

"What?" she demanded. "I do!"

"Ah…well…" Despard began to shake his head, but Jill cosied her person right up close to him, practically tipping her bar stool over. "I shouldn't, I know…and yet—"

"You should," Jill ordered emphatically. "Have one anyway, alright? Keep me company. 'Cause you know for fact they're already going at it, bud, Leon and the Count. Probably right now; pro'bly hot and heavy, too, I'll bet. Might as well drink." She poked his pristine suited shoulder with a pink-polished nail. "Nothing to better to do, yeah? Might as well just… drink."

"Argh!" The Interpol officer recoiled and let loose a strangled moan, dropping his leonine head into his elegant hands. "Miss Jill! Darling girl! A favour I beg of you-_don__'__t_ remind me of that bastard faux Count—do not, please, I beg of you! He leaves me so—I just wish to rend his—and—argh!"

"Yup." Jill bobbed her chin and wrapped a quick arm 'round her flailing fellow detective's body. "No, no, there, there, Riiichard. I am _so_ sorry, babyface. Won't mention Count D again, I promise—"

"Please to make certain you don't, ma petite," he friend sniffed sullenly into his Scotch. "It is…painful."

She nodded slowly, all sympathy.

"Sucks, yeah, to be you right now. Tough luck, pal. Now…drink up, Richie baby. Make the best of it. M'not doing this alone, here. You hafta' help me." She laughed, pointing to herself in the mirror. "Can't be a woman drinking alone, Richard, or a p'lice officer. S'not right. Not kosher. Gotta help me."

"Non?" Despard sighed heavily. "Ah! Well…if you were to put it like that…I suppose I must, oui?"

"I'm putting it just like that, _Riiichard_. Drink, damn you!"

**0o0o0o0o**

Elsewhere, in Chinatown, the atmosphere was perhaps not quite so convivial, though certainly there had been laughter and lots of it. Trouble was, it was the maniacal sort. The sort that sent shivers through one innocent L.A. Homicide detective's innards.

He stared, nonplussed, at his probably-best-friend-and- sometime-maybe-could be lover, laying prone atop his own prized Oriental carpet, literally shaking with mirth. Snorting with it, gasping with it—with tears in his very unusual eyes because of it.

It was…eerie. Leon didn't like it—not one effing bit. And he made no bones over saying so.

"Jeeeezus _gawd_, D! Stop with this shit! Get hold of yourself!"

No response but yet more freaking oddball Chinese hilarity—interspersed with tiny gulping snorts every time the Count lifted his lashes and caught a glimpse of his perplexed friend. Leon ground his teeth, irritated and growing more upset with every passing moment.

Count D just fucking laughed.

"Oh, for_fuck__'__s_ sake, D—just! Just _please_, okay? You're being_really_ weird here; weirder even than normal!"

The Count sputtered, squeezing his eyelids shut so tightly together yet more happy tears seeped from beneath them.

"Oh-my-gawd!" Reluctantly, Leon released the upper arms of the perp and took a moment to glower darkly down at him—the asshole, this utter asshole, the who kissed him passionately one instant and then the next instantly lost it to hysteria. "Damn it…What's **so** fucking _funny_, huh? Is it me, D? Huh? _Huh_?"

That earned him a feeble hand flutter and the Count only sailed into another freaky fit of the giggles.

"Well, fuck!"

He _so_didn't get this, Leon thought. It wasn't even funny in the least. It was so far from 'funny' it was goddamn in the next effing country! Like maybe in the Baja it was funny, but not _here_, not _now_, damn it! And his Count was acting like a total freak-show—and being difficult about it, too. Probably on purpose—it would be just like D to do that to him.

"You crazy person!"

Leon scowled dark as a summer thundercloud, chewing on his lower lip and emitting a species of muffled growl when the semi-muffled laughter didn't cease. But—he peered down carefully-at least it finally looked like D was at last trying to exert a little control.

"Oh—come _on_, D," he begged hopefully, in a gap between giggles. "Stop already, yeah? Enough's enough—I get the picture. Well, I don't, really, but, could you, _**now**_, please? For…for _me_?"

"Oh—ah! Ahh-hah-hah! Leee-on!"" The magic word only sent D into tiny choking fits. Leon growled again, loudly.

"Fine—be that way. Are you done yet?"

Clearly not. D covered his eyes with his forearm and snorted up his damned silk sleeve.

"…Please be done, D."

…Still not.

"_**D**_!"

Nope. Nothing doing.

"…Christ!"

"Ah….hah! Snirk!"

"Dumbass."

"Ooof!"

The Count ceased his wheezing bout of merriment but only—apparently—because he was literally gasping for air, being hopelessly deprived of it, and this well after Leon had passed through over his mini-tantrum and was reduced to semi-patiently sitting back on his haunches to wait it out.

"…Finished yet?"

"Hmmm-ngh!"

The detective had rather thoughtfully kept D's legs trapped between his, on the odd chance that they might yet resume their previously interrupted tryst. He shifted forward to his kneecaps, staring down at the creature laying beneath him, so close and yet clearly so far away, mentally.

This was _sex_he was hopefully in the midst of having—'leastways he'd _thought_ it was sex, as it started out that way—and really stupendous sex at that, Leon reasoned. Soft hair, firm ass, great skin. Silk and teeth and some smokin' hot lips on him. Yep. Sex! And the first chance to get off with someone other than his own hand he'd snagged in a very long time, too. He wasn't leaving go of the opportunity for more of same unless he absolutely had to.

Or if the Count absolutely made him. Told him to get off—not in a good way—and skedaddle. 'Cause D might. He…just…might do exactly that, the weirdo, the uptight, foreign animal lover who hated people and probably wasn't all that copacetic with having one—a male one with a hard-on—crouched over him.

Leon sighed bitterly, the corners of his lips curling down.

Problem was…it was sex with D, too, whom he'd occasionally caught himself thinking of as sorta…well, _good-looking_. In a kinda, sorta girly way, 'cause D was….well, he was pretty, damn it—but not really. More like—not so much 'girly' as just…plain…beautiful.

There wasn't much Leon considered 'beautiful'. But D…D was that. And more.

It was thoughts such as that which had kept Leon pretty much tongue-tied and hamstrung for eons. He'd no idea what to do with them—not a clue. And he wasn't about to say a damned thing about them to the object of those peculiar thoughts, either, 'cause he liked his balls right where they were, thanks. Attached firmly. And his dick, too. And D might very well rip 'em off if Leon were to, say, grope him. Or something. Suddenly.

D, meanwhile, pressed two shaking palms over his mouth to stifle the very last of it, obviously doing his very Zen Master best to regain his legendary control.

"I'm!" he gasped, "I'm—so sorry, Detective. I did not mean—"

"To scare the pants off me?" Leon asked acerbically, scowling darkly. "Cause you did. Really, D, are you—are you done yet?" The demand was petulant.

"Nh! Ngh! Stop-stop, Detective, I beg you!" The Count gargled in response, just a little, swallowing hard.

"No?" Leon clicked his teeth when his tactic didn't work too well and resumed his blue-eyed glaring tactic. It always worked on criminals before; maybe D would finally notice he was a little…call it unhappy, yeah? "'Cause this is getting really old, Count. Fucking moldy-dead thing kinda old. Rotten."

"Oh? R-Really?" That made Count D's eyes widen. He clamped his red lips shut finally and swallowed down the last of his fit. "_Is_ it, Detective? You d-don't say?"

"Um, yeah," Leon shrugged, resentful. "What'd_'__you_ think, D—I_like_ being laughed at? Think it's funny, do you? 'Cause notice _I__'__m_ not laughing, D. I don't even know what's going on here."

"Um—hah! But—but most assuredly, Detective," the Count replied as serenely as he could manage, being pink of cheek and with his eyes still sparkling. He settled his shoulders into the plush carpet comfortably, squirming a little as he did and casting a wry glance down between the two of them. Leon knew D was clearly noting where it was on his mostly unclothed person he was pinned immobile by 'his' Detective and how exactly it was Leon had him subdued. "I meant no disrespect, believe me."

"Sure, sure, D," Leon brushed it off. "You've been laughing your ass off at me for five full fucking minutes, okay? I timed it, alright?"

"Oh? Indeed, my dearest Detective. I had no intention of disconcerting you. I was merely—only—"

"Well, fuck me on a stick," Leon swore, shaking his head. "You—you honestly had no idea, D?"

"Indeed. It is so, Detective."

What Leon did not know was that Count D had quite subtly checked him out. There it was, the Count exulted internally—that swell of manly bulge behind his detective's straining zipper. A very handsome swell it was, too. He licked his lips, focusing his eyes upon it, the sign that Leon's libido was still fully engaged. "I am finished. My sincere apologies if I disconcerted you."

"Disconcerted!" Leon shouted, temper threatening once more. "Try fucking freaked me out, D. Jeez!"

And D smiled, his eyelids discreetly lowered; for their pelvic bones were nudged together in a rather exquisite manner and the Detective was very obviously still interested. _Very_ obviously. Approximately nine fully erect inches of 'obviously' and all of it delicious to contemplate.

"Hmm. Yes, yes," D nodded. "I do believe I am, Detective. Finished with _that_, at least."

"Well, fucking _excellent_," Leon snapped, bits of him jiggling with ill-hidden impatience as he shifted about above his maybe-would-be-was-possibly-still gonna-be lover. He rocked back on his heels, causing various swells and 'obviouslys' to interact with other 'obviouslys'. "That's just 'effing great, Count! And I'm damned happy for you, alright? You know why?_I__'__ll_ tell you why! 'Cause_I_ want to know what's going on with you, D—so**talk**. Talk now and talk fast or I'll haul you down the precinct so quick your frigging Chinese head'll spin and you won't know what hit you. You act like you're on drugs or something, D," he accused, pointing a stolid forefinger. "S'gotta stop."

"No!" A conciliatory hand was raised after the Count regained his composure and long fingers spidered across Leon's bent kneecap in a silent caress. "No, Detective…truly, it is alright. I am…perfectly well, I assure you. I was only—_you_ were so very—"

"_What_? What was I, D? Talk, damn you! You're confusing the shit outta me! I don't know what to think!"

The detective leaned closer, frowning with all his might, and grasping the tentative hand insinuating itself ever so subtly into the creases of his thighs.

"I mean, first we were…and then we—"

He caught at it, as he'd catch at a lifeline, incredibly grateful that D was no longer laughing maniacally and even more grateful that D didn't appear to be unduly upset or girlishly jealous or in the throes of any other impossibly dangerous emotion. Cause he wanted so badly to touch. All that beauty before him. He…wanted it.

"And-and, _I_ thought, but then you—_you_!"

Emotions he hadn't the remotest hope of dealing with—the weird-ass laughter had been strange enough!

_It__was__relief_—Leon told himself—and not something else that had his heart thumping so wildly. He just didn't like…just really didn't like it when D went all mysterious on him.

…And laughing his ass off during sex was certainly in the category of 'mysterious'. Too fucking right!

"Detective?" D's eyes were soft; that might be a hint of a real smile on those curving usually sneering lips.

"Come on, please, D?" Leon pleaded, changing tactics mid-stream; all big blue eyes and impatient 'little boy' twitching. "I thought we were—and—then, um, you know, okay? And…I really, _really_ don't get it; why you laughed at me, I mean, so? Was I that funny, thinking-? Um. _Talk_ to me. What'd I do? Did I do something wrong?"

The long cool fingers clasped between his own instantly curled tight to his, reassuringly.

"Hmm. My poor Detective. You did nothing untoward, Leon…believe me." Leon noticed the Count kept on with his mysteriously mad smiling act, though he sported a lovely new rose-coloured flush on his pale cheeks. "I was not…displeased, Leon. Far from it."

"Yeah?" Taking heart, the detective waited yet another interminable minute, hoping the Count would say more. When he didn't Leon swallowed, taking his courage by both hands. He was a fucking man, not a weasel, right? He could do this. "O…kay. If you say so." He fumbled with the fingers he was holding, transferring his stare to them instead of directed at D's expression. 'Cause he still didn't get it…and it might be that the sex wasn't ever gonna happen and then where would he be? "…But? Then what happened?"

"…Leon." D purred. Fucking purred. Leon jumped, startled.

It would be so frigging awkward. The detective gulped with a great deal of difficulty, blinking fast. _Change_—he wasn't too fond of change, nope. Not if it was gonna to be bad. What did that tone of voice mean, exactly? Was it only a deceptive prelude to more giggling?"

"Leon." The Count beckoned him closer, his odd eyes sparkling with secretive amusement. "Cease your pointless fretting, Leon. It is only…it is that it appears—and this to my utter and entire astonishment, believe me—I find I don't much care about this Riiiichard person…nor even Miss Jill. Nor your unfortunate hangers-on down at your place of work—nor even those horrible posters you keep upon your walls, my dearest detective. They are—" He freed his hand from Leon's absentmindedly tight grip to wave it about, like a bird. "Not what matters _now_. It's you, Detective Orcot…_Leon_. You're the one."

"Me? **Me**, me, you mean?" Somehow Leon was managing to make sense of this, though it didn't make any sense at all. "….Really _me_?"

"Yes, Leon," the Count nodded promptly, eyes very bright. "You. You, my so-dear detective." Like strange stars in the equally strange universe Leon had apparently stumbled into, quite by accident. "You have finally kissed me, my detective –and I would dearly wish you would do it again!"

"What?" The detective didn't quite fully comprehend what D was saying about 'not caring', but he definitely keyed on in the 'do it again' part. He lowered his lecherously achy body back down upon D's again anyway, even with a head stuffed full of the Count's nonsense words and a not-quite-getting it feeling swirling between his ears. He went full-length and sprawling over D while he was at it, figuring maybe he couldn't go too far wrong if D was offering what it sure as hell sounded like he was offering. "This, you mean? Well, shit! Shit _yeah_, D!"

He did do—the kissing part—but meanwhile scrambling around to hunch over D's prone form quite carefully. Delicately positioned, as if one single wrong move, one slight pressure point exerted a little too hard on that revealed white skin might act to send his Count straight back into that strange place he'd just been…or possibly-maybe might tip Leon right off the surface of known world altogether.

Because he was falling—but not quite over the edge. He was fallen but D's eyes were closed and Leon wasn't sure what to think.

Their lips met; just clung for a few heart-stopping moments.

Good sense aside, the edge began to seem very inviting; Leon groaned, clamping down on his natural urge just to take the Count then and there. Nope—that would be really rude.

"Um….mhhmm," D managed through a mouthful of eager tongue. "Mmmm. Very good, Detective…you are a fast learner. I…like that about you, yes? Very much so. Come here, please. Closer."

Scarlet nails dug into Leon's neck, just lightly. A poke, a prod. Compelling.

"More. And…again."

"…'kay…" Leon mumbled gruffly. "Can do." He lowered himself by another scant degree—barely respirating. Barely anything but the minimum of bodily functions. For his poor heart was pretty much a goner—and so was his equally unfortunate dick. Both felt amazingly full, as if they'd burst their seams any second. Like they were in a lot of danger of exploding—and so was he.

He didn't so much as deepen the kiss as fall into it, blinking.

"Mmm," D purred again, pleased. "Leon…"

D's other hand crept up, cupping Leon's clean-cut jaw fondly, and then slithered through Leon's hair, raking it back off his damp frown-marked forehead. His swollen scarlet lips curved further as his odd eyes opened only to narrow piercingly upon Leon's worried face. It all came together, that look of his, culminating in a particularly inviting, intriguing smile, one that promised a great deal.

Leon jerked, grinding his hips down. Groaned, mainly because he was pretty much speechless.

"Closer, Detective," D urged him, when they paused for a little air. Leon, gasping, had to strain to hear him; his ears were buzzing louder than the drill that SM dentist bitch had used. "I...enjoy this very much, what you're doing. But then…I rather enjoy _you_, don't I? Did you know?"

"Huh?" Leon blinked blankly. Know what now? Shook his head once at D, his neck bones creaking from being stiff as a rail for so long. Took a lot of out of a guy, not smashing himself into another and just tearing his clothes off. And that was such a wild idea—such a fabulous idea, Leon shuddered. "What's that you say, D? You—you _do_ like?" Well, duh! Of course!

"Of course I do, Leon."

...But not 'duh', either, Leon knew. Not at all. He'd never had much luck just assuming, not when it came down to D. So he wasn't gonna assume anything now, damn it! Wasn't going to even think-!

"Shhh. Don't think. Kiss me, Detective. I beg you," D pleaded, derailing him, his voice molten sugar with cherries on top. Leon swallowed. D seemed totally stuck on this one thing—but it was by no means a bad thing. "Kiss me. Again."

"…Well, okay," Leon sighed, befuddled completely, and he leaned down to peck at D's painted mouth. "I can do that, sure." It thrilled him, definitely—he could get into it damn quick, yeah. Fuck, he was into it already! "If you want—ah! Ah—wait a sec…"

But he drew back from the contact almost immediately, eyeing the Count with some severity and tightening his thankfully not-painful jaw. This was—this was fucking scary. Yes, it was.

"Um. Ah…D? Er…when you say you like this—d'you mean?"

"Enjoy, Leon," D replied pertly, scraping those scarlet talons of his straight down the length of Leon's flinching spine. He rubbed them in circles and Leon could feel himself sagging. "Relax and enjoy; I won't bite you…much."

Leon hesitated yet; the better part of valour considering the odds. He never knew with D…that was always the problem.

"Are-are you _sure_you're not going to freak out again? That was really weird, okay, you laughing like that." The detective shook his shaggy head slightly, at a complete loss. "Kinda freaky, and I don't know if I—I mean, it wasn't exactly a joke, you know?" He nodded at their close circumstances. "This. Before. You know—_before_," he repeated, meaningfully. "When we—and then you—"

"Mmm…Leon." Wordlessly, the fingernails did their magic. Leon went to their urging, his mouth parted slightly and not much good for talking anymore. "Lee…on…"

"Mmh?"

Closed his eyes when it happened. Three times lucky, maybe?

"…'kay…"

Warm mouths touching, gentle this time. But not tentative, no. These mouths had it all figured out, they did. Even if certain blond brains were still stuck back in LaLa Land, floundering.

"Lovely, but. Not like that," D whispered breathily, a moment after, wrapping his arms 'round the hapless Detective's neck and tugging him back down to level most impatiently. "Not so…soft. Harder, Leon. Like this!"

"Mnphf! …so, uh?" Leon's eyebrows went up as he angled his jaw, "you want more? H-Harder? Like—huhnnn?"

"Nhn."

Count D nipped him, hard enough for Leon's lower lip to swell poutily.

"**Ouch**! Fu-hey, D! What was_that_ for?" Leon licked at the tiny wound slowly, cogitating, somehow liking the taste of his own blood…that is, if D did.

"Exactly so, Detective," the Count smirked. "Punishment. You're a fast learner, my dear sir, but not fast enough."

"Er—I don't wanna hurt you, D."

"Harder is like _this_, Detective." The Count brought his knees up, clamping his thighs tight to Leon's loins; ground his pelvis upwards, so there was no possible way the Detective could mistake what was happening between D's legs for anything other than a very serious matter. One that needed attention, stat. "More means _this_, Detective." He rolled his hips seductively; Leon moaned aloud. "Do you understand now?"

"Hey!" Leon yelped again—but that was soon swallowed. "I can—I can go in? **Oh**? Ohhhhh!"

"Detective…" the Count murmured some little while later, that cultured voice smooth as cream and rich with promise. "Detective, by 'like this', I certainly was referring to_harder_-and more. Faster—and deeper…and yet _more_, Detective. Yes, of course you may 'go in', my idiot detective. Give me everything you have, Leon. Because I very much want it."

"You—you do?" Leon brightened instantly. By one million watts. "Really? All the way in, D?"

"Mmmm…hnh-nn." The slather of sharp tongue over Leon's flinching Adam's apple went a long way toward convincing him. "All…the…way, assuredly."

"Well—fuck _**yeah,**_ D!—I can do _that_, sure—mmph!" Leon nodded madly, grinning like an idiot till the Count impatiently yanked him floorwards again and basically licked the goofy curve right off his stupidly stretched lips. _Okay!_ His brain trilled. _Okay-okay__—__**okay**_! _This__is__good__—__really__good!_ Cooking with gas, now—_not__just__an__aberration!_

"Lee…on…"

Leon's brain was promptly short-circuited by the long-nailed hand cupping his balls and squeezing.

"Oh—oh_,__**yeah**_, D….like that, yeah!"

"Precisely so, Detective!"

They rolled over, folding in upon one another, wrestling like wild animals and rutting like them, too…and when D's favourite teapot bit the proverbial dust with a clatter-and-crash, neither gave a flying fuck or a hot damn. Not at all.

**0o0o0o0o**

The afternoon had not been without decent result elsewhere. Copious amounts of single-malt and a distinct lack of lunch had led the Interpol officer completely off-base. No longer disappointed so much, he was far more…distracted.

Of course, there were benefits to a liquid lunch with a colleague. The particular hotel the visiting Interpol Inspector was staying in was a very cushy one and located close by the precinct. The mattress was king-sized and the sheets were high-count thread Egyptian cotton. The bathroom was opulent and room service was five-star, but—none of that mattered much to one particular _other_Homicide detective. The visiting one's self-appointment mentor and cheerleader, a certain 'Miss Jill'.

She sat up abruptly, sateen duvet falling promptly off her kiss-marked breasts, and glared down at the handsome foreign lout lying stretched out full-length and replete beside her. The one with the accent—the one with the extremely gifted, abnormally long tongue.

"You, there!" She jostled him roughly. "Wake up, damn it!"

The one who'd been whining his little ass off not long ago in lovelorn despair over Leon.

"Wh-wha?" came the sleepy mutter. "Mmm…no, thank you," it mumbled politely, its owner rolling over to bury his touseled head farther in the pillows. "Maybe later, ma cherie…ngh."

"Sheesh! You really have no head for your liquor, do you?" Jill complained, whapping a tanned buttock in passing and flailing about for the side of the wide mattress. The bed was a tleast a full city block wide, damn it. She had to crawl to reach the night table. "Thought you were kidding me," she snarled, making her way carefully, "but guess not. By god, how big_is_ this bed, anyway? I can't find the goddamn end!"

Despard—politely—moaned quietly, snuggling into the covers.

"…'orry."

"Richard—damn it, _pay__attention_." Jill wasn't by means satisfied with stupid 'Sorry's from stupid Frenchmen. "Wake the hell up and listen to me already—it's not even dinner time yet! What the fuck did we do all day long?"

"Mnmhhh." The Frenchman did mutely consent to roll over, so Jill could at least glare at his face. "Erm..fuck, actually. Yes? You did not like it?"

"Immaterial!" Jill snapped instantly, settling down against the second heap of pillows. "So, look, bub." She jabbed a finger into the air inquisitively. "What're we going to do about your murder victims, hon?" The finger fell to poking Richard fiercely on his naked bicep when he remained inert and mostly unresponsive. "Really, Riiichard, we should be getting back to that…kinda urgent, you know? There's the Chief—he'd probably livid now. And it's two damned homeless guys dead in a row now and it can't keep happening. So the Chief's right, yeah? Has to be stopped, asshole. We can't be sleeping away the day when we're supposed to be working. I don't know what the hell you were thinking, dragging me to the bar like that! I _mean_, we're detectives, Riiiichard—we're _supposed_ to be out detecting, okay? Richard?"

"Hmm? But—but! I was not me, my little flower! I object!"

"Yes it was," Jill was adamant. "Of course it was you. I never go boozing that early in the day, Richard. All you fault, damn it."

"Ah….I see now. So be it, then, ma petite. I shall take the blame for our little…indiscretion."

Jill huffed, crossing her arms over her breasts.

"You're damned well right you will—so there, pal! Not my fault!"

"Hmm…" The handsome lout blinked slowly and yawned, stretching. He then regarded the visible parts of Jill narrowly, like a hungry lion. After a moment he ventured, cautiously, "Jill, my sweet, are you not the littlest bit…sleepy?" He waved a languid hand in the dusky environs of his bedroom. "Worn out? Fatigué, perhaps? Just a little?" he wheedled. "_I_ am. Me, I am exhausted now. I've been wrung dry, mon ange. You—_you_ are a tigress in bed, my darling—a tigress!"

"Right, right," she nodded, absentmindedly. "Thanks. Sure thing, bub. But…you know, _**work**_?"

"Nhmm…" Despard only rolled away again, shrugging. "Bah," he mumbled, facing the window. "No work. Head hurts. Maybe…maybe tomorrow, my heart. For now—sleep. Food. And…perhaps—"

"No—_really_. No more, Richard; we can't be doing this. And you-you're a total wimp, dude. Jeez! You try my patience. I am so having a cigarette right now. Shit!"

Jill gathered the lavender-scented linen sheet about her, a little off-balance after several very physical rolls in the hay with the visiting detective (not to mention the shower!..._and_ also the emergency stairwell on the way up to the tenth floor, by friggin' god, as they'd haphazardly stumbled their way to the place where 'Riiiichard' was flopping, having been not-so-politely ushered from the hotel bar). The same visiting detective who was honestly supposed to have a serious 'thing' for her partner.

Hmmm…couldn't prove that by her. No. Nuh-huh. No way.

"Work." Leaning over the side of the mattress, she dug in her purse for her smokes – the ones she used rarely, but generally on occasions like this. "Work, work, work. We should do some, as Leon definitely isn't. You get me?"

"Work? Ah, bah!"

Her bedmate shrugged away the question of work, his face completely relaxed in the light of the dimmed, watery, late afternoon sunlight when he shifted again to face her.

"You," Richard announced accusingly, "are very focused, my sweet. Did you know?"

"Yeah, work," Jill frowned at him. "I do know, thanks. I happen to have a job, okay—pays the bills, bub. So do you, Mister Lotus Eater. Pays for your really nice—" she flapped her half-smoked cigarette—"digs, okay? And…hey, _hey_! _I_ thought you were gay, Detective Despard?" She grinned over hunched shoulder blade at the recumbent Richard, who'd his nicely muscled arms casually crossed behind his head. "'Cause you're been sort of sending me some mixed signals, pal. You know?"

"Hngh."

Richard grunted, grinning faintly. He flexed his long lean body, stifling another languorous yawn and making very sure his bed partner caught a glimpse of his package. Even limp and somewhat sticky, it was—as _Riiichard_would say—_magnifique_.

Jill refused to be impressed. She snorted.

"Hmphff!"

Well…_more_ impressed. She'd been there, done that—owned the t-shirt. Was a card-toting Detective Despard groupie, yes indeedy. But….but now was the time to get bustling back to business, yeah. Before Chief had their respective asses hauled to his office….and maybe, too, they clear up a few niggling questions, more of a personal nature. Such as why her passing crush had made such a huge about-face, after sobbing into his Scotch over stupid, silly—very much _taken_—Detective Leon Orcot

"Care to explain this?" She waved the smoke of the cigarette in an amused question at their general state of undress, including the really posh hotel room and the undeniable fact they were together in it. "'Cause it's not looking too gay right now, Riiichard. I mean,_really_. That's some impressive equipment you've been packing. _I__'__m_ impressed."

Richard grinned even more widely, entirely at his ease. Cleared his throat importantly and—and winked!

"Bi, actually, my sweet. I happen to like both sexes. Or maybe…all." He winked a second time at Jill's blush. "Though it's usually the gentlemen for me. But, eh." He bobbed his handsome chin at her, smiling sweetly. "Women are so prettily made that at times I just can't seem to help myself." He sat up beside her abruptly, uncoiling his length and deftly tucking down pillows behind them, and then helped himself to a drag from Jill's cigarette. Man was smooth; he did it effortlessly even though his head must be pounding. Jill's eyes widened in silent appreciation. "_You_, for example, ma petite. You are very pretty, Miss Jill. _Enchante_."

"Huh? Really? I didn't know." Jill pulled a disbelieving face. "Neat."

"Hmm." Despard leant far more closely, draping himself familiarly over her bent arm and upper body but deftly avoiding the descending smoke from her cigarette. It tainted the air blue between them, like a ghost, perhaps. Of things past. "Perhaps you did not hear me? Let me repeat, yes? Like _you_, for example," he breathed it in her ear, making her giggle. "You're _verrry_pretty. So delightfully so I couldn't prevent myself…Jill."

"'Pretty', huh? Is that what you're looking for—that type? Then how'd you end up with _me_, Richard? You must've been really wasted." Jill giggled again, half-teasing, half-shy, but very much blushing all over. "_Really_ wasted, man." She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray he promptly handed her, inordinately pleased at the compliment. "'Specially after Leon. That stupid idiot's not 'pretty'—he's just plain hot!"

"…Ah, well. Yes."

Richard only slid a comforting arm about her, tugging her closer, so that she lay back against it. He stashed the dirtied ashtray on the oak bedside table and smiled serenely into her tumbled mass of blonde hair, with all his winsome charm broadcasting loud and clear, so that Jill couldn't help but feel it enveloping her like a cloud of manly pheromones.

"As to that. Say…if life is but a garden, my sweet Jill, if you will allow me the fancy? If it is, then you," he kissed her neck softly, sucking in an earlobe and letting it go most sinfully slowly after he'd indented it with his teeth.

"Oh! Oh, stop!"

"_You_ are a daffodil, Mademoiselle," the Frenchman murmured huskily, taking full advantage of the fact that he was really very French indeed. "A narcissus, as our dear Leon is a proud upstanding tulip – both golden-hued flowers in the glorious garden of Love, begging to be plucked. So hard to choose between you, you see. There is so much to admire, here—" he kissed his way up her neck, till she gasped helplessly, slumping sideways and across his lap.

"…And here—and _here_. Indeed," Despard growled in her ear, "you are both most attractive to me, no matter whom it is I may have…feelings for. For all that, ma cheri, I truly—truly—" he nipped her throat, "have no difficulty at all 'getting it up'—as you Americans say so crudely—for _you_, my sweet Jill."

"Idiot!" Jill flushed at the intriguing tickle of his lips against her throat…and nestled closer. "Um. Want to go again?"

"_Mais__oui_, my little flower." Richard deftly turned her naked body in his arms, brushing his well-shaped mouth against hers in passing, murmuring lewd things through the wet trail of their saliva. "We shall fuck until we can forget, yes? And…'screw the Chief, shall we? Let us take our dear Leon's advice."

A breathless Jill laughed again, nodding helplessly, and let herself be tenderly wrestled atop Detective Despard's hips, enjoying the grasp of his long-fingered hands 'round her own soft ones.

She grasped his sturdy manhood firmly, already rising to the pulse of blood thundering at her wrists and her crotch. Heady it was, the feel of cock throbbing beneath her bottom—the ultimate seduction. And—though she didn't know it and never, ever would-her kiss-smeared lips curved into the twin-sister of that same exact smile Count D was, at just that very exact moment, turning brilliantly upon _his_ paramour.

"Oui, oui, Monsieur!" she agreed, diverted. "I think—ah! I think… I can… may-**ooo**!—_whee_!-be help you with that!"

**0o0o0o0o**

The Parlour of the Pet Shop was an utter shambles. For once in a blue moon the proprietor could care less about the mess. He sighed instead; a whisper of purest satiation, his odd eyes closed and blind to the shards of porcelain, the scattered remnants of cake and scone, butter and cream and crumbs.

"Mmmm," he groaned throatily. "Leon!"

"This way, babe. Lean toward me." Leon was situated on the bottom, spine pressed into crumb-strewn carpet, with D's pretty ass perched like a velvet butterfly spread atop the jutting bones of his pelvis. He put a greedy hand around one smooth buttock and silently urged the Count into position. Their skin slipped as it met, wet as it was with come and perspiration. Saliva, too, partially dried.

Hands and mouths were all very well; this was the real thing—the kicker, as it were. And D knew it. Leon knew it.

But D _purred_.

"Mnn." He bit his upper lip in concentration, his white teeth making a small indentation in the scarlet bow. He frowned, curious as to how to fit the puzzle together properly. "This is…this awkward, Detective. Most…awkward. Are you certain…?"

He edged down gingerly, millimeter by scant millimeter and scowled faintly all the while.

"Shit! Does it hurt, D?" Leon frowned in return, worried shitless and head swimming, for it was unbearably tight at the very beginning and D had drawn his elegant black brows together in a faint grimace of what might have been pain…or possibly a single-minded, steely determination. One never could guess with D.

They'd both come already—couple of times now; hands, mouth, tongues, yeah—but not _inside_. And inside D was where Leon longed to be…but not if it would hurt _him_. The idea of hurting D made him glower so feociously the Count literally leapt in shock, tensing.

"Leon!…Leon?"

"Hey!" Leon fretted, running his hands down a lean ribcage, petting, petting away. "You really alright up there, D? 'Cause I'm going as slow as I can, babe, but _you_—you're really tight. Like—_really_ effing tight, D."

He clenched his jaw, sending a silent wild thanks off to D's evil dentist, who'd made that possible again…somehow.

"You ever do this—**ack**!—before? I mean…I can stop." He shrugged. Or tried to, and tried to look sorta sincere while he was doing it. "If…if you want?"

"_Ungh_! No – no, it doesn't, Leon," D assured him through gritted teeth. "It. Does. Not. Hurt! Ahh! A little more, please – yes! Just like that! Don't you dare stop!"

D smacked him, right across the left nipple, and pushed himself down, wincing. Leon took that as a command. He thrust accordingly, hips lifting high off the woven roses and vines.

"Ahh! _D_! Baby!" With a squelching noise and a nerve-singeing friction, they meshed fully together at last in a swift and sure motion. "Easy-easy-easy!" A resounding jolt which rendered them both unable to do much more than gasp at the suddenness of their intimate connection. "**D**!"

"Nrrgh! _Lee_—" the Count was yanked down by fierce fingers and kissed thoroughly by his captive, whose hard hips ground upward and sideways in a mind-shattering echo of the slow dance of their tongues. "Oh, Le—**ugh**!"

"Just—like—that!" gasped the detective, red-faced again and panting. "Better, yeah? Now it's better? Oh-fuck-me, it's so much better! Ooooh, baby!"

"—on!" Leon bucked up forcefully and D bore down, riding him instinctively, clenching his thighs together, plummeting and rising up on his knees—and moaning throatily when Leon drove deep. "Leon!" he panted. "That's—I can't—you're so!"

"_I_—!"

"_Hmn_?"

"I….think – _**think**__I_—I-think-I!"

The detective was reduced to wordless lip-flapping, his handsome face screwed up in an animal mask of pleasure.

"Wha—what?" The Count leant closer, trying to catch whatever it was his lover might be struggling to utter. "Leon?"

"I-I-I!" the Detective stuttered, waving a hand around madly. "**You**!"

"What, Leon? Wh-**o**_**hhh**_—! Great Buddha!"

He was incapable of completing his question, the hapless Count, for his detective was mightily engorged within him and a subtle ripple along the length of his throbbing organ sent D into nervous spasms; happy ones. Ones that made everything in the world seem blindingly wonderful. Supremely delicious; mortifyingly superb. And then Leon shoved repeatedly, jack-hammer style: up and down-up and _up-up_, his back arching manic off the floor, his short, stubby fingernails nearly biting through the carpet, and screamed. Screamed!

"—_think__I__love__you_!"

"Oh!" the Count gasped. "Oh-ho! Hah—hah—hah! Mer—mercy!"

It was cataclysmic, the effect upon D. He rose high, impaled and writhing, and then collapsed down, weightless and floating as he, too, ejaculated, spraying a thin, milky veil of cum all over Leon's clenched face and corded neck, his upper chest and taut-clenched abdomen.

"Mh-mh-nnnnnh!" Leon exhaled noisily, going completely limp beneath his burden. "Nnh!"

"Agh," Count D mumbled, undone, already in the process of falling down 'splat!' "Mmmm…Le—_Leon_."

"Oh. God." Leon said after a long silent moment of staring blankly at the dim plaster rosettes of the corniced ceiling. Languidly he swiped a rueful hand across his blond-stubbled jaw. It felt fantastic—everything felt fantastic—but.

"Hey…" But! Damn it all! "Um. D. Um, sorry. That was fast. Little too fast, yeah. I'm…um, I'm sorry 'bout that. Kinda…kinda out of practice—like I said, sorry. Er…ah? Do better next time?"

"_Um-hmm_," D agreed, his head lying limply atop Leon's damp chest. He didn't have the energy left to smile, but he would've if he could've – Leon was just that good. "S'alright, Detective. No worries."

"Um…really sorry," Leon muttered, looking anywhere but at D in his shame. "Usually I can go a little longer; make it last, but—well, _you_."

His fingers curled stiffly, grasping at D's faintly heaving sides. His body might be flattened into an inert leap but his dick was still rigidly hard. He remained sheathed in the froth of his own cum and the tight, warm walls that clasped him, fluttering softly. It couldn't possibly get better than this – except he now knew that it could, and just how to make it so.

Which he'd really like to do, yeah. If D could maybe find it in his Grinchy heart to forgive Leon for coming like a thirteen year old kid.

"Um, you," Leon mumbled, determined to set this situation to rights. "You're just…and I…so it…y'see? I mean I couldn't help it, D. Been a while, too. Not that that's an excuse or anything. But…um."

"Detective?" The Count rolled his heavy head across Leon's breastbone, peering upwards through his lashes. "Detective, be quiet. You were perfect. Perfect."

"Oh, hey! Really?" Leon grinned like a fool - and twitched his muscles, meaningfully. By which he meant his cock. Which was still quite, quite obvious, up D's ass and all. Opened his mouth to maybe say something more—likely foolish shit to match the smile he knew he was wearing. "Er…?"

Visibly thought better of it. And blinked a lot at D, who was..beautiful. Yep.

"Detective?" D cocked a puzzled brow at him. "You wish to say something to me?"

Leon blushed. Like a fire hydrant—that colour of red. His neck felt hot, he was blushing so much. This was. This was really difficult, and no wonder he'd never gotten himself in this position before, because he obviously sucked at it, saying stuff to somebody. Else.

"Er. D. It's just—it's not _my_ fault you're so pretty, D. 'Cause…you kinda are, you know? Don't take offense, okay? But you_are_ and s'not fair. I mean—you cheat. You're always in those dress things and they're almost see-thru' sometimes and then you bend over and you smile—"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, you've got kind of a built-in advantage, yeah? I'm just sort of…well, when I see you, like, I just want…I want you. A lot, D. Can't—um. Can't help it, sorry."

"Leon," D groaned, enervated by any number of feelings, the large part of them being composed of blissful relief. He shifted slightly, enough to eye his still vaguely mumbling, completely inarticulate detective severely. As a secondary part of the emotion coursing through his veins was sheer disbelief. Had he not be glaringly obvious in his preferences? No one could be this dense….could they?

"—so I—and you—there's that smile. S'pretty. All teeth—"

Apparently they—_he_—could.

"Leon Orcot," D interrupted loudly, "you are not the most diplomatic of gentleman, are you? I am hardly 'pretty'," he went on to sneer. "Indeed!" he tutted. "I am—most definitely, Leon—_not_ 'pretty'. You may call me any number of other things, Leon, but not that, please. Understand? However…"

Leon gulped, eyeing his Count nervously.

"Huh. Right, D. Whatever you say, then._Not_ pretty. Hoo-kay. Gotcha."

But D, for all his momentary ire, couldn't ignore the suggestive little sideways hump-and-roll of the detective's hips nor the calloused fingertips that slid so softly-sweetly down his flanks, nor the expanding heat within him that stretched him so sweetly. For his detective's lovely cock had never quite exited him, not even when semi-flaccid.

"Mmm. Hmm?"

D wriggled experimentally and found the answering motion exciting, and then he found himself suddenly sideways, lying on the carpet, with a bright-eyed and amorous detective grinning right up close to the tip of his elegant nose.

"Uh…D? Whatcha' doing?"

"….Hmmm…."

"You didn't answer me," Leon prodded. He bit the point of D's chin in retribution. "Before. You know? You alright, Count? I didn't hurt you or anything? Go too hard?"

"Hmm? What do you—_oh_!" D's pesky detective had begun a species of rocking motion; a seaside sway that had the intriguing effect of carrying the Count along with the metaphorical waves. And he had his thumbprint planted firmly—slyly-on the slit of D's cock, pressing down. "Ah! A-again, Detective? So soon again?"

"Oh, yeah!" Leon growled, vastly encouraged. Even D's prick was pretty, all white and pink like that. And sticking straight out, leaking like a faucet with a bad drip. "S'okay?" He ducked his chin, blushing. "I mean. Said I was sorry, right? Make it up to you now, okay? Show you a good time."

D forgot to breathe for a second. He gulped, which he'd never in his life done before—not like this, with his jaw slack and his eyes wide, wider than imaginable, and all he could see was the shy gleam in blue, blue eyes.

"D?"

It was the faint note of worry emerging in Leon's voice that brought D abruptly back to the fact the detective was waiting for an answer. Patiently waiting, bless him. And not just the obvious answer, either. As there'd been yet another rather burning question tucked into their inane conversation about 'making it up' and 'going again'…something momentous the detective had burst out with, in his usual ragtag fashion. And he was clearly fretting over it, even as he kept up that delightful motion of hip-rock and thumb-swirl.

"That's—that's if you want me to…? 'Cause if you don't—I mean, I understand and all. It's your first time—"

"Shush, Detective." D smiled, long, lean-eyed and sweet. Squinted and regarded the bulge of his lover's bicep most particularly, smirking. "I'm thinking."

"Hey, D!"

D _knew_ the answer; had been waiting to mention it aloud for ages now, but the time hadn't been right, what with the fact that he'd been relatively mindless for the last little while. And laughing like a loon before that.

"So…" his detective asked carefully, "that means you are up for it?"

D grinned over the memories: full- out, his lips stretched thin and his teeth gleaming white in the gathering dusk-in an unintentional mirror of his brand-new lover's current sappy expression.

"Oh…Leon. You idiot man."

"What? Hey!" Leon glared. "I am_not_ an idiot, D—why does everyone keep calling me that, anyway? I'm a detective, damn it—and because I'm a detective, it kinda follows I've got a brain, okay? And I use it—all the damned time! Trust me on that!"

"Shhh, Detective," D smiled. "I know it, believe me." His elegant features crinkled in unguarded delight, and then he embraced the idiot as hard as he possibly could at that awkward angle, ever mindful of the heated flesh that filled him. "I was but attempting to let _you_ know, my dear Detective, how it is I…well. May I say simply: and I _you_, my dearest detective."

Leon—as usual—had no clue. Didn't get it. But he startled anyway, sending his prick another inch or so into D to the great though unspoken satisfaction of them both. He grunted; the Count moaned happily.

"H-Huh? Oh-fuck-_ouch_! How can you still be so tight, damn it? Stop squeezing my dick like that, D! You'll make me cum again or something! And—hey, uh? D?"

"Nhgh-eh?" D, having said his piece, was in process of checking out of the House of Logic. He only grinned, fluttering his lashes.

"Oh…oh, _fuck_!"

Leon shoved—mainly as he couldn't seem to stop, or even pause for too long a time, and thrust. Threw his hips forward again when D's mouth dropped open, gaping unashamedly, and his brilliant purple-and-gold eyes clenched tight shut in reaction.

"D. D! You're so hot—yes you are—**but**! What did'ja mean before, D? The 'I, you' thing? Speak English, damn you—oh! _Oh,__shit_! It's—um—it's not too soon, is it? Am I going too fast for you? Cause I—see, **I**. Wanna make it last, this time. If—if you—can I?"

Count D was made of stern stuff; not even having his insides rearranged by an ardent human could completely discompose him…most times. Granted… there was effort involved. Inhuman amounts of it.

"Yes?"

"D?"

"Mmmm…is that not the general idea, Detective? That I 'make you come'…or something?" D teased. "You would like that I do this?"

That was stupid, Leon thought. He was stupid, too, though. They made no sense, either of them; no sense at all…except maybe to each other.

"Sure! I mean, good, yes—please!"He went red again, blustering. And then paled abruptly. "But – but you have to promise me something, D."

Because the vision that had just struck Leon was a very horrible one—and very humiliating.

"Uh?" The Count started, swallowing, for the rhythm had become quite persuasive and he wasn't really in the mood to pay attention even if Leon wanted to talk. Conversation could occur—would occur, if he'd anything to do with it—later. Much later. Over tea.

And cake.

Having decided this, he opened his eyes wide and made an effort to focus on Leon's face. "Mmh?"

"Er." Leon stared fixedly over D's one shoulder, his face carefully composed. "Um. Please don't tell Jill about this, okay? About_us_, for chrissake, doing _this_, that is. Um. Er, not yet, anyway. I don't want to hear it, you know? She'll never stop."

"Ah?" A raven brow quirked nastily. "Ah?"

"Yeah!" Leon nodded furiously, mistaking the eyebrow for acceptance. "It's scary, you know? What she'll say to me?"

He flinched at the thought of Jill's raillery – the way she'd tease him unmercifully of she ever found out he and D were an item. He'd rather suffer the drills of D's dentist without Novocain first.

"Hmm," D murmured blandly. "Go on."

"I mean, it'll be…it'll be really awful, D, and I kinda hafta to go to work, you know? So…um. If you wouldn't mind not…not saying anything, I'd sure appreciate it. Okay?"

"I see."

The Count smiled frostily, his eyes flashing sharp as cut glass, and ceased all his many elegant motions of answering interest abruptly—without warning.

"He-hey!"

"And why not?" he demanded sharply. "Miss Jill is your friend, is she not? Why should she care so much, Mr. Detective Orcot? Or, is it…is it that you are ashamed of me, Mr. Detective? You are—you are uneasy that you are involved with a man, perhaps? A dubious foreigner bearing a false title? I am certain your so-self-important Detective Despard thinks of me exactly in that manner._So_, Detective," he continued inexorably. "So. You wish to—to hide me? Deny-" he fluttered fingers, indicating all they shared between them. "This?"

"What? Whaaaat?" Leon was shocked. But not speechless, for once, thank fuck. "No! No, no, no; not that—never that! Jeez! I just want–" He paused, thinking fast. He scowled in thoughtful worry, shrugging. "Look, I just want to–to keep it _private_ a little longer, okay? So we can get to know each other, ah, um_,__ '_better', before we start off by telling the world."

"…Hmm. 'Better', you say, Detective?"

D eyed his detective suspiciously for a long moment, his body tense as spun steel, before he relaxed a barest millimeter at a time, his shoulders slumping. "…Better, you say…"

Leon breathed a tiny, silent sigh of relief, for D had been clenching him tightly, and the pressure had not been pleasant at all.

"Hm. We do not know one another well enough now, Detective? I, for one, would say we do. Pardon me if I am assuming, but-" D gestured broadly, his fingers quite expressive.

"But…" Leon cycled back to his usual dull red, gulping, and stared piercingly at the juncture of their thighs and the sight of himself, swallowed up by that tight pink hole. "But, what you're saying is, you don't really think of me that way anyway and I—I just made an ass of my-"

"No! This is certainly…intimate. Detective." The eyebrows slanted nastily; the Count's eyes flashed. "No? My mistake?"

"No!" Leon gulped, flushing. "No—that is! It's goddamned _intimate_, for god's sake, okay? Yes—and there's no way_I__'__m_ ashamed of _you_, babe! I'm not—really I'm not! You're hot—hotter than hellfire, D! And—and you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I swear! Really you are—I mean it! You're my friend—I mean I—I…"

"Hmm." D nodded, after a split-second pause of utter silence. "But…you wish to wait, despite that. And that's it? A brief period of…privacy, Leon? For an unspecified period of time. You merely wish to wait, perhaps a few days, perhaps a month, maybe more, merely to allow the anticipated disquiet in the office to settle? Then—and only then—you will be sure to let her know?"

"Um—ah, yeah! Yes—yes I will! Promise!" Leon nodded briskly, grinning like a moron at the face of diverted disaster, and slid his fingertips up D's spine in an effort to distract him from setting a specific date. "Absolutely, D. I just don't—didn't!—want to share you with anybody, babe – not just yet."

"…Really, now?" Evidently the Count liked the thought of that, for he tilted his face for Leon's kiss. "I…see, perhaps." But he seemed dubious, all the same. "Or perhaps not, but…I hope so," he murmured and Leon caught a barest glimpse of a vast loneliness behind the fan of his black lashes as they swept his flushed cheek. "Leon."

"No. Oh, fuck, no!" Leon cringed in terror. He'd screwed up again; he just knew it. "That's not it, D! I'm wrong, okay—completely wrong. I'm sorry—so sorry—you don't know how sorry I am-"

He couldn't help it, the rush of regret and anger and pride that ripped through him: to hell with Jill and with stupid kissy-face ,clingy Richard and anyone who might make fun of them! To hell with his own cowardice and indecision— to hell with everyone who wasn't D!

"…Leon?"

"_**No**_! No – look! Forget it, okay? I changed my mind, D! I'll call her right now – right this minute! Just let me get my phone—"

"Leon."

"—so you don't have to worry, okay, baby? It'll be fine, I swear. We'll tell everyone we know, okay? The Chief and Chris and all the Pets, too. Everybody and their fucking brother! We can just deal with it and I'm sure she'll stop after a month or so—"

The Count blinked at him.

"Leon, that's not necessary. I've as much as agreed-"

"But I want to! You're special, D! I – I _love_you! Said it earlier—guess you didn't hear me—but that's okay, so—"

"I did indeed hear you, Leon. Hush, now."

D stopped him with a kiss. Leon pouted, 'cause he really, really did—love D, that was. A…lot. More than—more than most anything. Even if D was maybe pretending he hadn't noticed; even if D never…never felt the way Leon felt. In return.

It was okay. It would work out. For a while—and that was all he asked for, really. Just a while. A while would be great. Better—much better—than nothing at all.

"D!" he whined, "come on, let me? I mean it! I can call 'em right now. All of 'em."

D shook his head, black locks falling into their shiny smooth curve. He was beautiful, yes.

"It's not necessary, Leon. You were right; we don't _need_ to tell anyone, not as long as _we_ know. I was being but stupidly jealous—I admit, this is the first-"

"Jealous?"

"But of course, Detective." The Count stared down at the detective as if he were crazy. "Of Miss Jill and that unfortunate Richard person," he swallowed with some difficulty. "And Them – and all those young women you used to chase after. Who had the gall to chase after you. Silly, I know." The Count ducked his head, so that it rested right under Leon's chin. "So…ridiculous of me. Do forgive it, Leon, my lapse. I'm sorry to press you—I am," he added and even seemed a little apologetic to Leon's amazed eyes. "It isn't seemly to—for two such as we are to be so demonstrative—certainly not before your colleagues—or mine, for that matter…no. No, of course not."

"Oh, no! No, no, no! No—fucking—no! Hold it right there, D. Stop—shut up."

Leon very carefully wrapped his arms around D, holding him gently, securely, as though he held the most precious treasure in the entire world. He buried his mouth in the black, scented silk that was D's hair as he tugged him down and whispered, his breath warming the thin skin beneath it. He whispered, because someone had to say it out loud but it didn't need to be that loud. It was loud enough already—right in his face kind of unavoidable, like. Like it was a long time coming, and yeah, Leon guessed it was, too.

…Because Jill would rub his nose in it. And Richard Despard would pout at him. And probably stare and then maybe ask questions…searching questions, because he was actually a decent detective, even if he was…was…whatever. That wasn't important. What _was_important was that Leon wouldn't know what to do—or say—because he wouldn't have told Count D out loud. To his face. D, who had the most right—of them all—t o know.

Leon gulped. He was a man, right? A real man, the kind of man who could say shit like this and survive. That kind. Just like D was the kind of man who could wear dresses and still be scary as shit. And…beautiful with it. _That_ kind.

"I _love_ you, for fuck's sake! I mean I – I didn't even_know_ I loved you, not until we did it, but I do, _so__much_ – and I would be happy to tell _everybody_that, babe, anytime, anywhere. You—you're just—you're fantastic, D. You're just…so…so—"

"Leon."

"I mean, believe me, D, when I say I—"

"_Leon_. Be quiet!"

The Count's head twisted; his face turned, and he covered Leon's mouth with his own soft lips, nipping, sipping, teasing a smile from Leon's grave face. Such an earnest face, and the eyes—those blue eyes were his downfall.

No…it was all of him. This silly Detective of his—all of him, every particle. So much…so much to love. And yet—

Yet, and really, a man—even a not-quite-human man—a gentleman shouldn't be so free and easy with all his secrets. There was that question hanging, yes, but it could hang for a while longer, could it not?

"Kiss me, Detective," he purred, his eyes bright again, and Leon did so, wordlessly, for they needed no more words for the moment. "Put that mouth of yours to better use, Detective," D ordered softly, between slurps of tongue and fond nips. "Show me—as you say?—a 'good time'? Won't you?"

**END**

_With XOXO's and apologies to everyone who waited so long and so patiently; I hope it pleases you. Happy Hollydaze, Tiger_


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